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FELIX    PYAT. 


THE 


- Picker  of  Paris 


BY 

FELIX   PYAT 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH  BY 
BENJ,  R.  TUCKER 


BOSTON,  MASS.: 

PENJ.  R.  TUCKER,  PUBLISHER 

1890 


CONTENTS. 


PREFACE 
PROLOGUE 


Part  First.— The  Basket. 

THE  HOTEL  D'ITALIE           5 

THE  HOTEL  CRILLON 12 

THE  QUAI  D'AUSTERLITZ .  .       .        .'"-".       .       .14 

THE  BANK  COLLECTOR 20 

THE  BERVILLE  MANSION^ 25 

THE  DIDIER  GARRET 41 

AT  THE  PAWN-SHOP 46 

CANAILLE  &  Co 53 

IN  PARADISE 60 

AT  THE  PARISH  CHURCH 65 

AT  THE  BOARD  OF  PUBLIC  CHARITIES 67 

AT  AUCTION 71 

RETURN  TO  THE  BOARD  OF  PUBLIC  CHARITIES 77 

THE  HOTEL  MEURICE ,84 

BARON  HOFFMANN 89 

AT  SAINT  ROCH .  95 

Part  Second. — The  Strong  Box. 

THE  STUDENTS 99 

THE  STUDENTS. —  SOPHIE .no 

THE  STUDENTS. —  REGICIDE 115 

THE  CONFESSIONAL 119 

THE  CHECK           .               127 

THE  PLOT 131 

THE  ORATORY 134 

THE  HOSPITAL 139 

THE  FAMILY 147 

THE  BOUDOIR 152 

THE  TWENTY-FOURTH  OF  FEBRUARY 157 

T.HE  TWENTY-FOURTH  OF  FEBRUARY. —  THE  LUXEMBOURG                            f  }fo 


CONTENTS. 

Part  Third. —  The  Masquerade. 

THE  TEMPTATION 164 

JOURNALISTIC  MASQUERADE 171 

THE  OPERA 174 

THE  MAISON-DOREE jjg 

THE  DRESS ,00 

SORTING  THE  RAGS ,qc 

THE  DUEL 200 

THE  BIRTH 204 

THE  REVELATION ' 207 

FATHER  JEAN        ...'•'. .217 

THE  KARON'S  DOUBLE  STROKE  ....        .        .        .  2^} 

THE  CROWD _,0 

AT  THE  DELEGATIONS '  2\* 

FATHER  JEAN'S  IDEA ' — 


Part  Fourth.— The  Struggle. 

BANKER  AND  RAG-PICKER    . 


FORCED  MARRIAGE 6 


249 

FOREVER  WINE!  

THE  CONCIERGERIE ^ 

SAINT-LAZARE 

THIRTY  THOUSAND  FRANCS 

THE  GUNS 

260 

PARADISE  FOR  SALE 2S 

THE  COUNCIL 

2Q4 

INTO  THE  BASKET        ......  ^'J- 

THE  MARRIAGE 

RELIGIOUS,  CIVIL,  OR  FREE?      . 
MADNESS 


Contrary  to  the  usual  practice  of  writers  who  construct  a  drama  from  their  novels,  the 
author  has  constructed  a  novel  from  his  drama. 

This  is  at  least  original.  It  is  also  easier  and  safer.  The  Duval  soup  is  made  more  easily 
than  the  Liebig  essence.  A  play  is  a  work  of  concentration ;  a  hook,  a  work  of  elaboration. 
The  largest  and  often  the  best  part  of  a  drama  is  not  put  upon  the  stage,  but  a  hook  has  no 
"behind  the  scenes."  The  volume  gives  the  author  more  license,  space,  and  time  than  the 
theatre,  and,  for  good  as  well  as  evil,  the  author  profits  by  it. 

Thus  the  drama  of  the  "Rag-Picker"  is  necessarily  only  an  act,  an  episode,  in  the  life  of 
Father  Jean.  The  novel  of  the  "  Kag-Picker  "  shows  his  entire  life.  The  drama  is  only  a 
picture ;  the  novel  is  a  panorama.  The  author  presents  therefore  a  complete  panorama  of 
Paris  during  the  past  century,  not,  like  romanticism  and  its  son,  naturalism,  simply  to  as- 
tound, clutch,  and  pocket,  but  to  teach,  elevate,  and  moralize;  not  art  for  art  and  gold,  but 
art  for  man  and  right,  —  Socialistic  art. 

What  a  man  of  my  time  has  had  an  opportunity  to  see  is  unprecedented.  All  the  sove- 
reigns of  the  old  world,  kings,  priests,  and  masters,  giving  place  to  the  new  sovereign,  the 
People  of  Paris. 

Now,  Paris  has  always  brought  luck  to  authors,  whether  dramatists  or  novelists.  The  two 
greatest  popular  successes  of  the  epoch  have  been,  in  fact  if  not  in  right,  as  a  novel,  "The 
Mysteries  of  Paris,"  and  as  a  drama,  "The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris." 

If,  then,  hampered  by  the  limits  of  the  footlights,  the  author  nevertheless  has  been  able, 
by  dint  of  condensation,  to  create  a  legendary  type,  he  has  had  ground  to  hope  that  with 
full  liberty  of  action  he  might  make  a  novel  as  successful  as  the  drama,  according  to  the 
axiom  that  "  he  who  can  do  more  can  do  less." 

FiLix  PTAT. 


THE  RAG-PICKER  OF  PARIS. 


Under  the  arcades  of  the  Palais-Royal,  then  in  all  its  glory,  the  centre  of  all  the 
luxury  and  all  the  lust  of  Paris,  of  the  large  cafes,  the  large  restaurants,  the  large 
book-stores,  the  large  theatres,  and  the  large  houses  of  infamy,  —  in  short,  of 
fashionable  Paris,  which  had  not  then  emigrated  to  a  more  northerly  part  of  the 
city,  toward  what  are  known  today  as  the  Grand  Boulevards,  —  a  rather  lugubrious 
lantern  bore  upon  its  glass  panes,  in  big  black  figures,  a  number  of  sinister  repute, 
Number  113,  that  of  roulette,  that  of  rouge  et  noir,  that  of  the  large  public  gambl- 
ing house,  licensed,  authorized,  and  breveted  in  the  year  of  grace  1828,  by  the 
government  of  the  King,  for  the  ruin,  m  urder,  and  suicide  of  citizens. 

After  having  traversed  the  corridor  that  is  found  in  all  the  houses  of  the  Palais- 
Royal,  one  mounted  to  the  second  floor  by  a  side  staircase,  likewise  common  to  all 
of  them.  One  entered  a  bare  hall,  deposited  canes  and  umbrellas  at  the  office,  and 
finally  penetrated  to  the  gaming-r  oom,  lighted  by  Argand  lamps  placed  above  the 
table  covered  with  green  cloth. 

This  cloth  had  cabalistic  div  isions  upon  it,  numbered,  and  separated  by  red  and 
black  lines.  The  wheel  was  in  the  middle,  a  sort  of  copper  basin  fixed  in  the 
table,  around  which  a  little  bal  1,  launched  by  the  finger  of  the  chief  croupier, 
rolled  violently,  until,  its  momentum  exhausted,  it  fell  into  one  of  the  compart- 
ments, divided,  numbered,  and  colored  likewise,  red  and  black. 

At  the  two  ends  of  the  table  were  seated  two  sub-croupiers,  in  black  coats  and 
white  cravats,  shaven  and  smooth  like  priests,  gloomy  and  cold  like  judges,  armed 
with  little  wooden  rakes,  taking  the  mon  ey  lost  or  giving  the  money  won  without 
a  sign  of  emotion. 

Between  the  croupiers  a  circle  of  players  of  both  sexes,  sitting  or  standing  close 
together,  with  their  stakes  before  their  eyes,  noting  the  decisions  of  the  wheel, 
placing  their  bets,  withdrawing  their  winnings  or  leaving  their  losses,  counting 
and  recounting,  piling  up  and  unpiling,  rubbing  their  hands  or  biting  their  nails 
before  this  green  cloth  enamelled  with  gold  and  silver  coins  like  the  yellow  and 
white  flowers  in  a  meadow ;  in  short,  all  the  frenzies  of  joy  or  of  pain,  of  fear  or 


ii  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

of  hope,  all  the  ecstasy  and  all  the  delirium,  all  the  laughter  and  all  the  rage,  of 
speculation,  of  the  vilest  passion,  that  for  lucre  without  labor,  and  of  the  most 
grievous  disappointment,  that  of  vain  effort  against  fortune. 

Around  this  altar  of  human  sacrifices,  where  priests  and  victims  sat  together, 
liveried  valets  circulated  with  indifferen  ce,  fat  with  the  flesh  which  the  players 
had  lost. 

Victims  1  Alas,  they  were  of  al  1  ages,  except  infancy,  of  every  sex  and  of  every 
sort,  in  dress  coats  and  in  blouses,  from  the  embarrassed  workman  who  played 
his  day's  pay  to  the  idle  millionaire  who  played  the  coupon  cut  from  his  bond ; 
from  the  mother  of  a  family  who  played  her  children's  bread  to  the  father  who 
played  their  dowry. 

There  were  sober  players,  .who  won  or  lost  one  coin  daily,  one  coin,  no  more ; 
others  who  ruined  themselves  by  bold  st  rokes,  playing  in  combined  masses  like 
Napoleon  I,  or  in  scattered  ban  ds  like  M.  de  Moltke ;  others,  honorary  players, 
neither  winning  nor  losing  anything,  but  playing  on  without  playing,  and  because 
they  had  played  too  much ;  ruined  players,  whose  passion  had  survived  their 
puree,  and  who  continued  a  fictitious  and  mad  game,  with  a  zeal,  a  care,  an  expen- 
diture of  time,  and  an  infinitesima  1  art,  with  a  patience,  a  study,  and  a  calculation 
which  might  have  enabled  them  to  conquer  the  problem  of  the  quadrature  of  the 
circle,  but  not  the  fatality  of  the  double  zero  of  the  bank. 

A  misplaced  coin,  doubtfully  fallen  astride  one  of  the  divisions  of  the  cloth, 
suddenly  brought  about  a  terrible  quarrel. 

A  player  who  was  poor,  and  therefore  the  more  rabid,  a  workman  who  had  been 
losing,  and  who  believed  that  this  t  ime  he  had  won,  threw  himself  furiously  upon 
the  croupier,  who  was  already  sweeping  in  the  money.  He  tore  his  rake  from  him, 
and  profiting  by  his  surprise,  was  paying  himself  with  his  own  hands,  when  two 
strong  valets  intervene  d  and  seized  him. 

Just  then  a  woman  of  the  people  burst  into  the  room.  On  seeing  her  man  be- 
tween the  valets,  she  cried : 

"  What,  deceiver  1  Here  again  1  You  always  come  here,  wretch,  to  waste  the 
children's  supper  1  I  would  rather  find  you  at  the  wine-shop,  as  I  used  to.  The 
idea  of  throwing  our  last  crust  to  these  thieves,  who  take  everything  from  us,  and 
leave  us  nothing,  nothing  to  lose  but  your  ears  1  Go  on,  heartless  man  1  Why 
does  the  government  permit  it?  Ah,  the  rascal,  the  monsters!  There  is  no 
justice  1 " 

And  sewing  the  rake  in  her  turn,  she  showered  blows  indiscriminately  upon  all, 
—  players,  valets,  and  croupiers,—  until  they  had  thrown  her,  her  and  her  man, 
out  of  the  door. 

Before  entering  the  room,  the  poor  mother,  who  had  her  child  in  her  arms  cling- 
ing to  her  neck,  had  been  stopped  in  the  passage-way  by  the  employee  in  charge  of 
the  cloak-room,  who  had  said  to  her : 


Prologue.  iii 

"  Children  are  not  allowed  to  enter." 

So  she  had  deposited  her  child  in  return  for  a  check,  at  the  cane  and  umbrella 
office. 

Driven  out  with  her  man,  she  had  for  gotten  in  the  fracas  her  precious  deposit, 
and  was  already  rapidly  descending  the  staircase,  when  the  child's  cry  recalled  her 
like  a  fury,  and  she  claimed  her  little  one. 

"  Two  sous,"  said  the  employee. 

"Why  two  sous?" 

"  Yes,  two  sous  for  the  check." 

"  I  haven't  them." 

"  Well,  then  you  cannot  have  the  child." 

"  Ah,  this  is  too  much !    You  are  going  to  steal  my  little  one  also?    Heap  of 
scoundrels!     Go  for  an  officer,"  said  she  to  her  man*     "But  no,  he  does  not  stii 
Have  you  then  no  heart  or  soul,  no  arms  or  head, —  no  bowels?    You  will  suffei 
even  our  child  to  be  taken  from  you,  coward  ?    Well,  look  1     I  am  only  a  woman, 
but " 

And  in  spite  of  the  valets,  she  leaped  like  a  wolf  at  the  throat  of  the  employee, 
when,  attracted  by  the  noise,  some  of  the  gamblers  came  to  the  scene,  and  one  of 
them  threw  two  sous  upon  the  desk  to  restore  peace. 

At  last  the  poor  mother  could  go  out  with  her  child  and  her  husband. 

She  seized  the  latter  by  the  arm. 

"  You  have  drunk  and  gambled  everything  away,"  said  she,  with  a  cry  of  wrath 
that  expired  in  a  sob.  "  Well,  you  have  set  a  good  example.  Your  daughter,  the 
older  one,  on  whom  we  counted  to  help  about  the  house,  Sophie " 

"  Well,  Babet,  what  ?  "  asked  the  father,  aroused  from  his  stupor  by  the  name 
of  his  daughter. 

"  Well,  she  ran  away  tonight.    And  it  is  your  fault.    There  is  no  supper." 

The  wheel  continued  to  turn. 

Among  the  most  absorbed  players,  the  most  reckless  of  all  was  a  man  of  great 
distinction  and  perfect  elegance,  sitting,  or  rather,  so  carried  away  was  he  by  pas- 
sion, standing  beside  a  charming  woman,  no  less  elegant,  who  followed  all  his 
movements  with  a  curiosity  and  an  anxiety  that  increased  with  the  growth  of  the 
stakes. 

He  had  just  feverishly  laid  down  his  last  bill,  his  final  stake,  his  all,  a  thousand, 
franc  note,  the  end  of  a  heap. 

He  had  thrown  himself  upon  the  red,  after  having  sacrificed  ten  times  to  the 
black.  Ten  losses  in  succession,  doubling  his  stakes,  and  thus  losing  a  fortune, 
and  ir  the  hope,  nay,  almost  sure,  that  the  black  would  finally  yield  to  the  red. 

The  eleventh  time  the  black  re-appeared. 

Something  like  a  death-rattle  came  from  the  chest  of  the  player. 


iv  The,  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

The  young  woman  turned  pale. 

"I  am  ruined,"  said  the  man,  in  a  choking  voice,  with  a  movement  which  he 
tried  to  conceal  under  his  coat. 

The  woman  rose,  restraining  his  hand  armed  with  a  dagger. 

Then  two  gentlemen  who  had  just  entered,  and  had  been  witnesses  of  the  player's 
last  loss,  one  with  a  figure  and  a  bearing  equal  to  those  of  the  ruined  player,  and 
with  his  hat  pulled  down  over  his  eyes,  the  other  of  a  more  common  aspect,  and 
his  hat  in  his  hand,  made  signs  to  each  other,  and  the  latter  cried  out : 

"  Gentlemen,  which  of  you,  on  his  way  up  here,  lost  a  thousand-franc  note  which 
we  have  found?" 

All  the  players  stopped.  Several  looked  instinctively  in  their  purses.  Others 
laughed,  thinking  the  question  a  joke. 

Alone,  after  a  short  hesitation,  the  unlucky  player  raised  his  voice. 

"  I,  Monsieur." 

The  other  looked  at  him  fixedly. 

"  You  have  lost  a  thousand-franc  note,  you  say  ?  " 

"Yes,  on  my  way  up." 

"  Well,  if  you  will  go  down  with  us  to  the  janitor,  with  whom  we  have  left  it,  we 
will  restore  it  to  you." 

They  left  the  room,  but,  instead  of  going  down  the  staircase,  the  man  who  had 
before  spoken,  stopping  on  the  landing,  said  : 

"Here  is  the  note.     Look  at  it.     It  is  really  yours,  is  it  not?" 

"  Doubtless.     Thank  you." 

And  the  player  took  the  note. 

"  Very  well,  in  the  name  of  the  law  I  arrest  you." 

"  You  arrest  me  ?    Why  ?  " 

"  Because  you  are  a  robber." 

"I?" 

"You." 

"How  so?" 

"  This  note  is  Monsieur's,  not  yours." 

"It  is  mine,  I  tell  you." 

"  Monsieur's  name  is  on  the  back  of  it." 

"  Ah,  yes,  but  he  has  passed  it  to  me." 

"  Very  well,  then,  what  name  ?    Don't  stir." 

The  player,  caught  in  the  trap,  had  tried  to  look  at  the  name. 

The  officer  seized  his  hand,  took  back  the  note,  which  he  restored  to  the  owner, 
and  was  about  to  drag  the  thie  f  away  to  the  station-house,  when  the  latter  drew 
a  stiletto. 

At  once  he  plunged  it  into  the  heart  of  the  officer,  who  fell  without  a  cry. 
Then,  at  one  bound,  the  assassin  cleared  the  staircase,  escaping  all  pursuit, 


Prologue.  v 

thanks  to  the  two  outlets  of  113,  Rue  de  Valois  and  Jardin  du  Palais,  more  fre- 
quented then  than  today. 

The  owner  of  the  note  then  found  himself  face  to  face  with  a  young  woman,  the 
companion  of  the  player,  who  had  seen  and  heard  all.  And  lifting  his  hat  that 
she  might  recognize  him,  he  said  with  triumphant  coolness : 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  told  you  so.  Will  you  believe  me  now?  It  is  complete. 
Ruined,  a  thief,  an  assassin  !  Now  wil  1  you  leave  him?  " 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then,  with  more  calculation  than  frankness,  she 
said: 

"  Yes,  Count." 

"  Come  then,"  said  he,  dragging  her  to  ihe  staircase,  which  they  quickly  de 
scended,  leaving  the  police  officer  in  his  blood,  and  entering  an  elegant  coupe  which 
carried  them  at  full  speed  to  one  of  the  most  splendid  mansions  in  the  Rue  de- 
Lille,  Faubourg  Saint-Germain. 

The  first  player  that  went  out,  seeing  the  corpse,  said  : 

"  What  ?    Another  suicide  1 " 

And  without  further  ceremony  he  passed  over  this  occurrence  so  common  in 
that  place,  and  all  night  long,  and  the  next  day,  and  every  following  day,  the 
wheel  poured  forth  its  flood  of  bodies  and  of  millions. 


END   OF    PROLOGUE. 


THE  RAG-PICKER  OF  PARIS. 


PART  FIRST. 

THE 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE   HOTEL   D'lTALIE. 

On  Mardi  Gras,  1828,  the  ill-famed  quarter  of  the  Place  Maubert  still  deserved 
its  name,  having  at  that  time  that  morbid  charm  of  the  old  Paris,  so  dear  to  roman- 
ticism and  the  plague,  to  the  friends  of  the  picturesque  and  of  typhoid  fever,  and 
•which  the  philosopher  must  leave  microbes  and  the  poets  of  the  Restoration  to 
mourn. 

It  was  still,  at  that  period  of  religious,  political,  and  literary  reaction,  at  that  ill 
omened  and  retrogressive  period  of  legitimate  royalty  and  divine  right,  brought 
back  into  France  by  the  invasion,  a  diminutive  of  the  old  Cour  des  Miracles,  a 
Bohemia  restrained  by  the  time,  where  the  degenerate  brigands  of  the  nineteenth 
century  continued  those  of  the  Middle  Ages,  just  as  the  dwarfs  of  the  modern 
fauna  continue  the  giants  of  the  fossil  fauna,  and  the  tertiaries  the  antediluvians. 

Nevertheless,  they  preserved  enough  of  the  monster  to  frighten  and  shame  pro- 
gress, health,  and  humanity. 

This  was  therefore  the  most  "conservative"  district  of  Paris,  an  insult  and  a 
challenge  to  the  democratic  spirit  and  to  the  effort  of  the  Revolution,  still  rebel- 
lious against  the  law  of  perfection,  deep-rooted  in  the  protecting  shadow  of  the 
Cathedral,  the  Hospital,  the  Conciergerie,  the  Police  Office,  and  the  Morgue,  under 
the  favorable  influence  of  those  still  standing  bastilles  of  every  tyranny,  physical, 
mental,  and  moral,  or  rather  of  those  nurses  of  vice  and  crime,  of  ignorance  and 
misery,  those  Catholic  and  monarchical  layers  and  hatchers  of  evil,  admired  and 
sung  by  the  great  deistic  bard  who  doubtless  would  rather  be  in  Notre  Dame  with 
Quasimodo  than  with  Voltaire  in  the  Pantheon. 

The  natives  of  this  lagging  section  of  Paris,  hostile  to  every  Socialistic  and  hy- 
gienic movement,  savages  arrested  in  development  or  fallen  back  into  barbarism, 
had  scarcely  anything  in  common,  beyond  the  fact  that  they  were  sans  culottes, 
with  the  heroes  of  that  once  republican  quarter,  the  bare-armed  of  the  year  II. 

Unclean  and  unhealthy  citizens,  malefactors  and  wretches,  they  were  celebrating 
on  the  day  mentioned  a  carnival  with  nothing  Roman  about  it?  a  Mardi  Gras  ppn- 


8  The  llay*ric~ker  of  Paris. 

Then  he  saw  a  file  of  vagabonds  more  destitute  than  himself,  not  having  in  their 
pockets  even  the  two  cents  necessary  for  the  furnished  lodging  or  any  fat  stored 
under  their  skins  for  the  winter  season.  They  surely  had  not  been  able  to  make 
carnival,  and  mournfully  marched  past  an  indifferent  keeper,  who  counted  the 
heads  of  these  emaciated  cattle  as  fast  as  they  entered  a  shed,  which  was  once  a 
stable,  but  had  been  passed  over  from  horses  to  the  needy  recipients  of  public 
charity.  The  stranger  saw  the  keeper  gruffly  repel  the  wretches  at  the  end  of  the 
line,  shouting  at  them:  "That  will  do,  the  rest  of  you!"  and  shutting  the  door  in 
their  faces  after  first  hanging  up  the  sign :  Full,  as  if  the  building  were  an  omnibus. 

The  unfortunate  surplus,  punished  for  their  tardiness  and  left  to  await  some 
more  favorable  turn,  threw  a  look  of  despair  at  this  word  as  inexorable  as  the  las- 
ciate,  envying  the  lucky  ones  with  the  usual  vengeful  feeling  of  the  unlucky,  grind- 
ing their  teeth  and  sneering: 

"Dogs'  weather!  Weather  for  dogs!  One  would  not  put  a  dog  outside,"  and 
other  sorry  jests  with  which  every  good  Frenchman  relieves  himself  when  vexed. 

These  suffering  souls  scattered  at  random,  cursing  and  swearing. 

"That  is  the  fate  that  awaits  me  tomorrow,  if  not  tonight,"  said  the  stranger, 
taking  out  two  cents  and  throwing  away  his  empty  purse.  "  Let  us  go  in ;  per- 
haps I  shall  sleep.  And  he  who  sleeps  dines  1 " 

And,  as  if  moved  by  a  sudden  determination,  he  lowered  his  hat  over  his  eyes ; 
a  squall  of  wind  and  snow  entirely  enveloped  him  and  drove  him  by  force  into  the 
ccecvm  of  the  Hotel  d'ltalie. 

He  gave  up  his  coin  at  the  door,  groped  along  the  passage,  and,  for  good  reason, 
passed  by  the  restaurant  of  the  establishment  without  stopping.  From  it  came 
the  deadened  sound  of  drinking  songs,  idiotic  laughter,  and  atrocious  conversation, 
accompanied  by  the  shrill  notes  of  a  Neapolitan  bag-pipe.  At  last,  passing  the  rope- 
ladder  which  led  to  the  choicer  lodgings  in  the  front  part  of  the  upper  story,  he 
found  himself  in  a  large  court-yard  at  the  back,  a  veritable  pit,  which  seemed  bet- 
ter calculated  for  wild  beasts  than  men  and  was  surrounded  with  gloomy  and  ill- 
smelling  structures,  dens  of  assassins  and  burrows  of  harlots,  where  swarmed, 
pell-mell,  in  unclean  promiscuity,  the  lowest  and  floating  population  of  the  hotel. 

There  he  contemplated  with  stupor  and  aversion,  but  without  compassion,  the 
singular  companions  who  were  moving  about  like  transparencies  in  the  pale  moon- 
light. 

Near  him  a  real  swarm  of  maggots,  a  group  of  puny  and  vicious  children,  poi- 
sonous mushrooms  growing  out  of  the  civilized  muck-heap,  were  amusing  them- 
selves in  twisting  and  biting  each. other  while  scraping  rabbit-skins.  Girls  and 
boys,  half  naked,  shivering,  found  sport  and  warmth  in  brazen  words  and  dirty 
plays;  pullulations  of  the  social  sewer,  flowers  of  crapulence  and  fruits  of  the  gal- 
lows, spoiled  in  the  germ,  and  ripening  in  this  hot-house  of  debauchery  and  need 
for  prison  crops  and  scaffold  harvests  I 


The  Basket.  9 

Farther  on,  their  alcoholic  parents,  incurable,  eaten  to  the  marrow  with  corrup- 
tion, were  picking  over  rags,  old  iron,  and  bones,  or  tying  up  bundles  of  old  papers, 
chewing  tobacco,  drinking,  and  beating  the  children,  for  diversion  from  work  as 
dirty  as  their  hearts  and  hands.  A  few  old  women  whom  the  others  looked  up  to, 
the  privileged  persons  of  this  Gomorrah,  were  making  pancakes  in  the  open  air 
over  improvised  stoves,  thus  exciting  the  envious  appetite  of  the  hungry  beggars 
stretched  upon  rickety  benches  or  seated  on  dilapidated  chairs,  who  watched  these 
culinary  preparations  without  saying  a  word,  mouths  open  and  stomachs  empty. 

Suddenly  the  intruder  was  pushed  violently  against  the  wall  by  a  man  who  was 
running  away  at  the  top  of  his  speed,  followed  by  the  cries  and  yells  of  the  crowd. 
All  present,  rag-pickers,  tramps,  beggars,  thieves,  and  prostitutes,  had  left  their 
work  or  their  leisure  to  rush  towards  the  corner  of  the  court  whence  the  cries  came. 

The  stranger,  who  had  recovered  his  equilibrium,  ran  to  the  spot  with  the  others, 
and  there  a  frightful  picture  met  his  gaze. 

A  man  lay  on  his  back  in  the  gutter,  a  knife  planted  in  his  heart  1 

A  queen  of  this  Louvre,  gamey,  hideous,  with  blackened  eyes,  half  drunk,  dis- 
hevelled, and  bending  over  the  victim,  was  trying  to  lift  up  the  body,  which  the 
mud  of  the  gutter,  fitting  burial-place,  was  covering  more  and  more. 

The  keeper  of  the  hotel  came  running  in,  furiously  gesticulating. 

"Another  man  stabbed  in  my  house  1"  he  cried.  "Who  did  it?  They  will 
surely  close  up  the  hotel  I " 

The  fury  rose  in  a  frenzy. 

"It  was  that  rascal  of  an  Italian,"  she  exclaimed,  tearing  the  knife  from  the 
wound,  which  covered  her  with  a  spurt  of  blood.  "Yes,  out  of  jealousy;  I  would 
not  have  him.  Then  he  killed  my  man.  Where  is  the  biffin  dt  contrebande  that  I 
may  kill  him  in  his  turn?" 

And  she  fell  back  upon  her  dead  in  the  gutter. 

Such  scenes  were  of  teo  frequent  occurrence  in  the  Hotel  d'ltalie  to  cause  long- 
continued  excitement.  They  carried  the  body  of  the  murdered  man  into  the  ken- 
nel of  his  woman,  and  went  about  other  matters. 

The  murderer  was  a  naturalized  rag-picker.  This  biffin  de  contrebande,  as  the 
girl  had  called  him,  this  jealous  Italian  who  had  come  to  carry  on  a  two-fold  for- 
eign competition  with  the  natives,  left  behind  him  unfortunately  the  apple  of  dis- 
cord,— a  new  wicker  basket  and  a  bright  steel  hook. 

They  threw  themselves  greedily  upon  these  precious  articles.  A  hubbub  ensued. 
Each  one  wanted  the  property  of  the  fugitive,  who  certainly  would  never  return  to 
claim  it. 

Matters  were  beginning  to  get  warm  and  knives  were  being  opened,  when  one  of 
the  old  women  with  the  pancakes,  a  fat  Minerva,  anxious  about  her  pastry,  raised 
her  voice  in  the  dispute,  crying : 

"  Idiots  1    Why  don't  you  draw  lots  instead  of  fighting?" 


10  The  Mag-Picker  of  Paris. 

Goddess  Reason  does  not  lose  her  rights,  even  among  brutes.  The  word  was 
listened  to  and  peace  restored. 

"  Stop !  to  be  sure  I  she  is  right  1 "  they  cried  on  all  hands. 

"  A  pencil!  "  solicited  the  over-ripe  Minerva.  "  Mossieu  doubtless  has  a  pencil?  " 
she  said  to  the  stranger,  who  mechanically  complied  with  her  request. 

They  arranged  themselves  in  a  circle.  Each  one  wrote  or  dictated  his  name. 
A  hundred  square  pieces  of  old  paper,  taken  from  the  bundles,  were  thrown  into 
the  hat  which  the  fugitive  had  left  in  the  gutter.  The  stranger  alone  remained 
indifferent  to  the  general  excitement.  He  had  even  turned  about  already  to  seek 
his  bed. 

"  Hey,  there,  bourgeois  I "  shouted  La  Sagesse,  with  an  air  ol  raillery.  "  Then 
you  do  not  want  to  win  the  basket  ?  You  are  utterly  disgusted,  black  coat  1 " 

Thus  appealed  to,  he  retraced  his  steps,  as  if  yielding  to  a  suggestion  or  inspira- 
tion, or  at  any  rate  to  a  sudden  resolution;  and,  taking  from  his  pocket  a  glazed 
and  emblazoned  card,  he  tore  it  in  two  and  quickly  threw  one  of  the  pieces  into 
the  improvised  urn.  Straightway  he  tried  to  take  it  back. 

lie  was  too  late. 

A  sort  of  Belgian  Hercules  who  was  managing  the  lottery,  by  the  right  of  might, 
had  shaken  the  hat  and  mixed  up  the  names. 

"The  game  is  done.  Nothing  else  goes! "  he  cried,  suspiciously,  announcing  the 
drawing. 

"  Bah  1 "  exclaimed  the  stranger,  bitterly.  "  Why  not  ?  Let  fortune  have  her 
way.  This  would  be  a  means  of  livelihood  worth  keeping." 

"The  hand  of  innocence,  if  possible,"  again  cried  the  Hercules  of  the  North, 
laying  the  hat  upon  a  chair. 

A  puny,  emaciated  creature,  a  mother  holding  in  her  arms  a  child  as  thin  as 
herself,  was  pushed  forward. 

The  excitement  redoubled,  eyes  glittered,  and  hearts  beat  violently,  all  heads 
gravitating  to  the  centre  of  the  circle. 

The  mother  bent  over  that  the  baby's  little  hand  might  be  within  reach  of 
the  hat. 

The  child  fumbled  a  moment  in  the  urn  and  drew  out  the  torn  card. 

"  Garousse,"  read  the  mother,  and  all  eyes  sought  the  winner. 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  the  Hercules,  "it  is  really  the  Duke  de  Crillon-Garousse. 
Surely  Monseigueur  has  not  won.  That  would  be  too  much  luck." 

The  winner  had  made  a  negative  gesture. 

"So  your  name  is  Garousse?"  continued  the  Hercules,  ill-naturedly.  "You  are 
lucky.  The  finest  name  and  the  finest  basket  in  France." 

And  spitefully  he  placed  the  basket  on  the  stranger's  back. 

The  ill-natured  Hercules,  with  his  square  Flemish  head,  avenged  himself  and 

:  others  for  not  having  won  the  basket.  Feeling  that  he  was  sustained  by  the 
which  all  shared,  he  tried  to  pick  a  quarrel. 


The  Basket.  11 

"If  it  is  not  you,  it  is  your  brother.    Isn't  it  so?    You  belong  to  the  family?" 

"No,"  said  Garousse,  blushing.     " There  is  more  than  one  ass  named  Martin." 

"Less  ass  than  fox.     I  believe  you  cheated.    You  put  in  your  name  twice." 

"  Yes,  he  tore  his  card  in  two,"  exclaimed  a  voice  from  the  mass  jealous  at  see- 
ing its  possessions  go  to  the  "black  coat." 

Foreign  competition  and  the  national  spirit  all  united  against  the  intruder,  and 
had  already  attacked  Garousse  and  driven  him  against  the  wall  to  take  away  the 
basket,  which  he  was  on  the  point  of  surrendering,  when  suddenly  the  police  burst 
into  the  court. 

They  came  to  verify  the  crime  committed  by  the  Italian,  and  open,  as  usual,  » 
platonic  inquest  over  this  murder,  which  was  to  remain  unpunished.  The  officers, 
who  never  visited  the  place  save  in  a  body  and  were  of  no  use  there  except  to  clear 
it  out,  saw  familiar  faces  and  began  a  battue.  Save  himself  who  can  I 

In  the  confusion,  Garousse,  unknown  to  all,  was  able  to  slip  away  and  gain  his 
liberty. 

When  he  found  himself  outside,  he  answered  with  a  Satanic  laugh  the  irony 
of  fate. 

"Oh,  yes,  what  luck!  I  shall  never  again  complain  of  not  being  fortunate.  I 
have  won  the  basket.  .  .  .  and  the  street.  Free  and  a  rag-picker!  Ha,  ha,  ha! 
Fate  has  served  me  well  this  time,  and  well  disguised  poverty  for  my  Mardi  Gras ! " 

And,  with  basket  on  back  and  hook  in  hand,  he  fled  from  the  Paris  of  rag-bags 
to  the  Paris  of  money-bags. 


12  The  Mag-Picker  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER IL 

THE  HOTEL  CRILLON. 

Garousse  walked,  or  rather  ran,  flew  as  if  he  had  wings  on  bis  back,  as  if  the 
basket  were  the  cloak  of  Nessus,  in  spite  of  the  blinding  snow  and  the  biting 
north  wind. 

His  teeth  chattered  with  cold,  hunger,  horror,  and  terror. 

On  he  went,  bewildered,  like  the  Jew  of  the  legend,  minus  the  five  sous,  like  the 
dead  man  of  the  ballad,  the  plaything,  the  prey  of  an  intense  night-mare,  the  vic- 
tim, not  the  punisher,  of  his  passions,  of  an  ungovernable  somnambulist's  course, 
of  an  infernal  hallucination,  and  of  his  own  execration. 

Finally  he  stopped  short,  saying: 

"One  must  livel" 

And  going  up  to  a  huge  pile  of  filth,  a  muck-heap  which  promised  rich  results, 
he  gave  his  first  thrust  with  his  hook;  then,  raising  it  and  at  the  same  time  his 
head,  he  gave  a  cry,  a  shriek : 

"  At  my  own  door.  .  .  .    Oh  1 ". 

He  had  read,  in  letters  of  gold,  beneath  a  coat  of  arms :  Hotel  Crillon-Garousse. 

A  fatal  force  had  led  him  back  to  his  splendors,  as  the  stag  to  the  spot  from 
which  the  dogs  have  started  him,  as  the  moth  to  the  flame. 

He  had  returned,  insensibly,  unconsciously,  spontaneously,  in  a  straight  line  from 
the  Faubourg  Saint-Marcel  to  the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain,  Rue  de  Lille,  to  the 
very  threshold  of  his  dwelling,  then  brilliant  and  flaming  with  all  the  luxury  of  a 
fashionable  ball. 

A  line  of  carriages  was  passing  through  the  carriage-way  ornamented  with  green 
shrubbery;  their  masked  occupants  were  getting  out,  dressed  in  elegant  or  marvel- 
lous costumes ;  valets  in  magnificent  livery  were  spreading  Persian  carpets  under 
the  carriage-steps  and  escorting  the  guests  under  silk  umbrellas,  like  offerings  to 
social  magnificence. 

A  feeling  of  supreme  revolt  took  possession  of  the  ducal  rag-picker. 

"My  hotel,  my  carriages,  my  servants  1  Others  have  them  all.  .  .  .  No,  they 
are  mine.  House,  friends,  women,  flowers,  diamonds,  treasures,  all  belong  to  me, 
to  me,  the  Duke  de  Crillon-Garausse.  This  is  my  masquerade.  .  .  .  Welll  am  1 
not  disguised,  too?  So  much  the  worse  if  the  women  run  away  from  me,  the  mas- 
ter of  this  residence,  where  I  have  spent  fortune  and  honor  I " 


The  Basket.  13 

And  fascinated,  dazzled,  delirious,  dragged  on  by  the  illusion  of  the  charm  and 
the  music  of  the  ball-room,  he  said : 

"I  will  go  in." 

He  took  one  step  and  remained  nailed  to  the  spot. 

He  had  seen  his  successor.  .  .  and  his  mistress,  arm  in  arm.  Doubly  succeeded  I 
This  was  the  last  blow,  the  thrust  of  the  knife.  .  .  .  Misery  was  his  sole  mistress 
now. 

Ah!  to  yield  one's  possessions  when  dying, — death  gives  the  title  to  the  living, 
say  nature  and  the  law, — but  to  see  one's  self  succeeded  while  alive,  and  by  his 
own  fault  1  That  is  enough  to  drive  one  mad.  That  is  to  die  twice. 

His  mistress,  this  other  queen  of  another  carnival  festivity,  a  sylph,  a  fairy,  a 
pure  vision  of  gauze  and  roses,  was  doubtless  more  beautiful  and  yet  more  revolt- 
ing than  the  queen  of  the  den  of  harlots  in  the  Rue  Galande.  She  was  a  traitor. 
The  one  at  least  wanted,  from  a  feeling  of  fidelity  and  savage  justice,  to  avenge 
her  man,  the  other  killed  hers. 

The  charm  was  broken. 

"Impossible,"  sobbed  the  wretch,  overwhelmed.  "I  am  not  a  mask,  but  a  man 
damned  by  gaming,  ruin,  debt,  and  forgery,  insolvent,  dishonored,  betrayed,  ac- 
cursed 1  This  successor  is  my  creditor.  This  palace  is  prison,  is  shame.  I  should 
be  ignominiously  turned  out,  or  arrested.  Ah!  better  still  is  liberty!" 

For  a  moment  longer  the  ousted  man  looked  at  the  windows,  before  which  were 
passing  in  confusion,  as  in  a  magic  dream,  all  the  magnetisms  of  the  ball-room,  the 
couples  clasped  in  the  waltz,  the  golden  trays  loaded  with  cut-glass,  under  the 
chandeliers  streaming  with  light,  and  the  enchanting  orchestra  covering  all  these 
fairy  apparitions  with  its  floods  of  harmony;  and  then  he  threw  a  farewell,  a  loud 
groan  of  indignation  and  of  anguish,  at  the  echoes  of  the  festival,  and  resumed  his 
course,  with  lowered  head  and  haggard  eyes,  fleeing  in  shame  and  rage,  pursued  by 
the  Nemesis  of  his  ruined  life. 

"Mauvais  biffin!"  said  an  officer  stationed  at  the  door.  "He  is  running  away 
with  his  booty.  I  am  suspicious.  Suppose  I  arrest  him?" 

And  the  bloodhound  gave  chase. 

But  the  rag-picker  duke  kept  on  running,  and,  having  a  start,  distanced  his  pur- 
suer, and  was  soon  out  of  reach,  sight,  and  scent,  far  from  the  Rue  de  Lille,  strid- 
ing along  the  Quai  Voltaire,  where  the  noise  of  his  steps  was  lost  in  the  rushing 
torrent  of  the  river,  whose  flow  was  swollen  by  the  melting  snows.  Thus  he  was 
able  to  continue  his  desperate  course  towards  a  future  which  was  the  consequence 
and  contrast  of  his  past. 


14  The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  HI. 

THE  QUAI  D'AUSTERLITZ. 

Still  running,  lashed  like  a  top  by  the  wind  and  his  emotion,  carried  away,  ab- 
sorbed, Garousse  reached  the  height  of  the  bridge  of  Austerlitz. 

There,  out  of  breath,  in  despair,  surrendering  to  fatigue  and  want,  he  sank  upon 
a  stone  bench  and  took  his  head  in  his  hands,  calling  up  in  his  mind  his  past, 
present,  and  future,  his  grandeur,  fortune,  friends,  and  loves,  his  follies  and  his 
fall,  everything,  in  short,  even  to  the  last  scenes  of  this  carnival  soiree. 

The  night  grew  colder  and  colder  and  darker  and  darker.  At  intervals  the  moon 
emerged  from  the  clouds  which  eclipsed  it,  exhibiting  against  the  background  of 
the  horizon,  in  a  dissolving  view,  the  monuments  of  Paris,  palaces  and  temples, 
covered  with  a  shroud  of  snow. 

Garousse  raised  his  head  to  view  this  dismal  scene  which  answered  to  his  affliction 
and  harmonized  with  the  end  of  his  life.  Nature's  mourning  penetrated  through 
his  eyes  to  the  very  bottom  of  his  heart. 

"  A  rag-picker,  1 1  the  Duke  de  Crillon-Garousse,"  he  exclaimed  bitterly. 
"Enough  of  such  suffering.  At  least  no  one  recognized  me.  This  misery,  this 
hook,  this  basket,  ohl  it  is  filthy,  infamous,  impossible.  I  shall  never  be  recon- 
ciled to  it  after  the  life  that  I  have  led.  No,  I  will  not  do  it;  death  rather! " 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  bound,  as  if  moved  by  a  spring.  His  mind  was 
made  up.  He  abandoned  his  basket,  threw  down  his  hook,  and,  with  a  last  ges- 
ture, hurled  his  hat  far  away.  Then,  resolutely,  he  walked  to  the  parapet. 

In  faoe  of  suicide  man  is  a  moribund,  but  a  voluntary  moribund.  Desperate, 
on  the  verge  of  the  void,  he  feels  at  once  the  terrors  of  the  agony  and  the  attractions 
of  death.  Garousse  instinctively  allowed  himself  a  respite  for  this  bitter  enjoy- 
ment, to  breathe  a  last  whiff  of  air,  of  life,  of  fright,  and  of  horror. 

He  lent  ear  to  the  splash  of  the  water  rolling  under  the  arches  of  the  bridge  with 
gleams  which  shone  with  the  reflection  of  the  moon  and  seemed  like  points  of  steel 
bristling  to  receive  him. 

The  quai  was  silent  and  deserted,  disturbed  only  by  the  distant  noise  of  carriages, 
the  sound  of  a  popular  refrain,  Forever  wine!  and  the  staggering  footsteps  of  a 
drunken  man  approaching  the  bridge. 

It  was  a  rag-picker,  doubtless,  for  he  carried  on  his  shoulder  an  old  sack  made 
of  cotton  cloth,  in  his  right  hand  a  hook,  and  in  the  other  a  lantern.  Dressed  in 


The  Basket.  15 

a  ragged  blouse,  on  his  head  a  soiled  undress-cap,  dirty  and  wet  to  the  skin,  he 
advanced,  insensible  to  the  wind  and  the  rain,  contentedly  singing  and  chattering. 

At  some  distance  from  Garousse,  seized  by  a  drunkard's  whim,  he  began  to  con- 
template the  moon  shining  at  its  full. 

"Ah,  old  girl  I  so  you're  gettin'  up,"  he  said  to  it  familiarly  and  with  the  fau- 
bourg accent.  "  Goezh  without  sayin'  that  the  sun  'zh  gone  t'bed.  The  sun  and 
the  moon  I  Ah  1  ah  1  what  a  fine  household  I  When  Monsieur  get'sh  up,  Madame 
goezh  t'bed.  Misfortune!  at  that  rate  if  there  are  ever  t'be  any  little  oiaesh,  the 
comet  will  have  t'step  in.  Wretches  of  stars,  get  away  1  If  it  is  not  shameful  for 
a  moon  to  cross  the  heavensh  'lone  in  such  weather.  You  confounded  giddy  girl, 
go  find  your  male,  with  your  night-cap,  and  faster  than  that.  Ash  f'me,  I  will 
not.  .  .  .  Oh  1  you  know  very  well  that  you  will  not  s'duce  Jean.  Away  with 
you  I  You're  not  the  girl  I  love.  Thash  cert'n ! " 

And  when  he  had  thus  barked  at  the  moon,  the  drunken  man,  whose  open  face 
was  beaming  with  good  humor  and  liquor,  came  back  to  his  passion  and  his  song : 

Forever  wine ! 
Forever  juice  divine! 
In  it,  while  life  is  mine, 
I'll  find  a  source  of  cheer. 

Jean  was  the  name  of  this  robust  and  hearty  man  of  forty  years,  a  jolly  dog  of 
the  Faubourg  Antoine,  broad-backed,  bronzed  by  the  open  air  and  by  drink,  well 
made,  by  chance,  some  child  of  love,  and  in  good  condition  in  spite  of  misery, 
intemperature,  and  even  intemperance,  thanks  to  his  out-door  life,  to  Doctor 
Oxygen,  and  to  carelessness,  —  an  erratic  block  of  Paris.  He  had  the  fire  and 
vigor  of  the  country,  the  sly  and  Gallic  humor  of  the  capital,  all  the  beauty  of 
health  and  especially  of  good  nature,  features  as  large  as  his  heart,  —  the  substance 
moulds  its  form, — in  short,  the  serenity  of  disinterestedness  or  of  omnipotence, 
which  the  ancients  called  joviality,  ab  Jove,  after  the  very  Father  of  the  Gods,  Bac- 
chus included. 

By  the  grace  of  this  divine  son  of  Jupiter's  leg,  however,  Jean  could  scarcely 
stand  upon  his  own.  He  continued  Ms  drunken  babble: 

"'Sh  queer;  they  say  a  glass  o'  wine  sustains.  Well,  I  have  drunk  more'n  fif- 
teen, and  I  can't  hold  m'self  up.  A  child  could  knock  me  down.  I  haven't  drunk 
'nough,  thash  sure.  What  I  need  'sh  drop  o'  brandy." 

He  stumbled  over  Garousse's  hat,  which  he  picked  up  with  a  thrust  of  his  hook 
and  stuffed  into  his  sack. 

"Good I"  he  exclaimed  with  a  shout  of  joy.  "There'sh  a  beaver  for  my  Sun- 
days." 

Garoussa  turned  round  abruptly  and  saw  the  drunkard  a  few  steps  from  him. 

"  Some  one  coming,"  said  he.     "  I  must  end." 

He  rushed  towards  the  parapet,  and  bestrode  it  at  a  bound. 


16  The,  ^Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

For  a  moment  he  remained  suspended  between  the  qua!  and  the  river,  between 

life  and  death. 

But  Jean,  with  a  violent  effort,  had  thrown  himself  upon  Garousse  and  seized 
him  by  the  skirt  of  his  coat;  then,  as  the  duke  fell  back  upon  the  ground,  he  took 
him  around  the  waist,  and,  in  a  comical  tone  of  surprise  and  sympathy,  said: 

"Well,  friend,  where  are  you  going?    'Sh  that  the  way  you  liquidate?" 

"  That  does  not  concern  you,"  cried  Garousse,  struggling. 

"But  if  you  are  my  fellow,"  said  Jean,  humanely,  still  holding  him,  in  fear  of  a 
second  attempt. 

"Your  fellow!    Filthy  beast!     Go  to  bed." 

"Thash  just  what  I've  been  tellin'  the  moon,"  said  the  imperturbable  Jean. 
"You're  the  beast,  to  go  into  the  water.  Man'sh  not  a  toad.  If  I  were  not  a  man, 
I'd  let  you  jump  and  fish  you  out  again,  alive  for  five  dollars  or  dead  for  ten. 
What  fun,  hey!" 

"  Go  away  1  let  me  go,"  resumed  Garousse,  softened  by  this  good  nature ;  "  1 
have  had  enough  of  life.  I  prefer  to  die  at  once  rather  than  die  by  inches,  of 
hunger." 

"Of  what!  of  what!  One  dies  only  of  thirst.  Come  'n  take  a  drop.  'Sh  my 
treat." 

"No,  let  me  alone,  I  tell  you;  it  is  my  idea.     I  am  tired  of  suffering." 

But  in  spite  of  everything  Jean  dragged  him  to  the  stone  bench,  and  began  to 
moralize  with  his  drunken  obstinacy. 

"  There,  there,"  said  he,  gently.  "  Come,  tell  me  your  troubles.  What  is  it  that 
disturbs  you?  Poverty?  If  thash  all,  I'll  cure  you.  But  not  by  water  first;  on 
the  contrary,  by  wine." 

And  he  sang  with  his  hoarse  voice : 

Of  every  ill  it  is  the  cure. 

Then  continuing  his  flow: 

"  Come,  there'sh  hope  yet.  You're  not  mad  if  you  like  water.  Duck,  away  with 
you!  Just  change  your  drink,  and  if  I  don't  save  you,  Jean's  word  for  it,  we'll 
plunge  in  together  and  I'll  pay  the  toll." 

Some  carriages  went  by  them,  and  masqueraders  passed  in  their  vicinity. 

Garousse,  weary  of  resisting,  sank  back  upon  the  bench. 

"Tick  of  a  drunkard,"  he  muttered,  resignedly.  "I  must  not  oppose  him.  I'll 
wait  till  he  goes  away." 

The  compassionate  rag-picker,  as  if  divining  his  intention,  sat  down  beside  him, 
and  resumed  his  exposition  of  principles  with  the  effusiveness  of  intoxication. 

"When  one  has  sorrows,  my  dear  man,  he  must  drown  'em;  he  must  drink.  But 
the  foam  of  the  grape,  the  healing  draught  of  Bacchus,  a  cooling  potion.  You  see, 
I've  been  through  it.  I  know  how  you  feel.  I  too  was  born  to  be  rnilard,  —  fa^e 


The  Basket.  17 

that  it  is, — despair  and  kill  m'self.  Well,  I  have  drunk  and  saved  m'self.  When 
1  have  drunk,  my  poverty  'sh  gone.  I  have  Paris  and  Bercy.  I'm  richer  'n  hap- 
pier'n  a  wholesale  wine-merchant.  I  see  everything  in  beaut'ful  colors;  all  is  red 
and  rosy ;  my  rags  are  velvet,  my  bones  ivory,  my  old  iron  bullion,  my  cotton  sack 
a  wicker  basket "  .  .  .  . 

Jean  gave  a  cry  of  indignation.     He  had  just  observed  Garousse's  basket. 

"  Ah!  so  you  have  a  basket,  youl  And  more'n  that,  an  elegant  one.  And  new 
besides.  Out  upon  you,  risht'cratl  And  you  complain  I  Here'sh  a  pretty  fellow, 
—  hash  basket  'n  wants  t'  kill  himself.  What  is  it,  then,  that  Mossieu  desires? 
A  wax  candle  p'r'aps  t'  light  his  way  and  a  plated  hook  t'  pick  up  his  bonds.  .  .  . 
and  the  Bank  o'  France  in  the  bargain." 

And  crossing  his  arms,  he  asked : 

"  Wha'sh'll  I  say,  then,  I  who  have  only  a  sack,  and  not  a  new  one  either?" 

Coming  back  to  his  fixed  idea  and  to  his  revelry,  he  exclaimed : 

"I'm  choking  with  thirst.  I  don't  understand  why  one  should  kill  himself.  .  .  . 
and  by  water  too.  The  deluge,  wretch,  out  upon  it  I  And  Noah's  vineyard  and 
the  rainbow.  .  .  .  th'  little  white,  th'  big  blue,  th'  free  red,  th'  three-six,  Mother 
Moreau,  Father  Niquet,  and  Son  Cognac,  all  th'  cons'lations  of  life.  Out  upon 
you  1  you're  ungrateful  t'  the  creator.  Do's  I  do,  rather.  .  .  Here  1 " 

He  handed  his  flask  to  Garousse,  who  refused  it  with  a  gesture  of  disgust. 

"Be  sens'ble,"  insisted  Jean,  without  taking  offence.  " Drink  1  Drink  cash 
down  or  on  credit,  by  th'  glass,  by  th'  hour,  by  th'  month,  by  th'  year,  as  you  can ; 
but  drink  always  and  in  spite  of  everything,  and  you'll  think  no  more  of  trouble. 
You'll  live  t'be  older  'n  a  patriarch,  and  fresher  'n  more  alive  'n  Methuselah.  .  .  . 
and  every  day  Saint  Mardi  Gras." 

The  drunken  man  rose,  excited  by  his  own  spirit,  and,  as  if  to  fortify  precept 
by  example,  emptied  his  flask. 

"I  who  speak  t'you,"  he  continued,  in  a  transport,  "see,  with  a  pint  o'  brandy 
in  my  belly  and  a  quid  o'  tobacco  in  my  mouth,  the  earth  can  no  longer  hold  me; 
it  has  pavements  only  for  me.  .  .  .  and  I  haven't  'nough  o'  them ;  I  walk  zig-zag, 
backwards  and  forwards,  from  one  side  of  the  street  to  the  other;  I  ricochet  like  a 
shell;  I  am  th'  equal  of  the  thunder;  a  wall  'sh  not  nx'  master;  I  could  break  a 
throne,  I  could  stop  a  train,  I  could  overturn  the  column.  I  no  longer  know  any- 
thing, either  cold  or  hunger,  either  pain  or  death,  nothing  at  all.  I  live  then  as 
I  have  drunk,  full  to  the  brim,  and  I  sing  with  a  heart  full  of  joy: 

"Forever  wine  I 
Forever  juice  divine! " 

Garousse  rose  in  turn,  exasperated  by  impatience,  and  said  in  an  angry  and 
threatening  tone: 

"  So  that  is  your  suicide,  you  dirty  wretch  ?    I  prefer  mine.     F.very  one  to  his 


18  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

taste.  I  like  water  better  than  your  wine,  drunkard.  I  tell  you  that  I  want  to 
die.  Make  room,  or  I  will  kill  you." 

He  seized  his  hook,  and,  disengaging  himself  from  the  rag-picker,  rushed  again 
toward  the  parapet. 

Jean,  staggering  and  clinging,  caught  him  again. 

"  Stubborn  fellow,"  he  stammered,  all  out  of  breath.  "  Die  1  What  a  principle ! 
And  in  my  presence!  Never  1  Ton  my  honor,  it  distresses  me.  Die  I  But  'sh 
forbidden.  And  your  duty  ash  citizen.  Clean  your  country  's  I  do,  comrade,  and 
come  'n  pay  your  share  of  th'  drink  tax." 

lie  tried  to  lead  him  away  towards  a  closed  wine-shop. 

"Shut  up  before  the  hour  I  I  protest,"  he  exclaimed;  "I'll  enter  a  complaint." 

Garousse  threw  him  aside,  and  in  a  furious  voice  shouted : 

"Hold!    You  really  worry  me.     Stand  off,  or  this  time  I  strike." 

Jean  drew  back  into  the  axis  of  the  parapet,  and,  stretching  out  his  arms,  still 
barred  the  passage. 

"  Ah !  Monsieur  'sh  angry,"  said  he,  in  a  tone  of  irony.  "  Excuse  me !  Monsieur 
then  prefers  water  t'  wine,  like  the  Grand  Turk!  Ash  you  please,  sultan,  and  so 
much  th'  worse  if  you  don't  know  how  t'  swim.  You'll  be  put  in  the  Morgue.  .  . 
and  in  the  newspapers,  with  all  the  honors  due  your  rank." 

The  duke  shivered  as  if  the  cold  marble  had  just  touched  him.  Exposed  on  the 
slab,  paraded  in  the  press,  he!  Oh!  He  had  not  thought  of  this  outrage  upon 
suicides,  of  these  dregs  of  the  cup. 

Jean,  seeing  that  he  wavered,  redoubled  his  moral  death-dance,  and,  striking  his 
forehead,  cried : 

"Stop  1    I  have  egzhactly  your  story  in  my  sack." 

"My  story?"  said  Garousse,  surprised. 

"In  black  and  white  and  in  the  'Officiel.'  Precisely  that!"  replied  the  rag- 
picker. 

"In  the  'Officiel'?  It  isn't  possible,"  exclaimed  Garousse,  sitting  down  again. 
"Let  us  look  at  it;  can  you  read?" 

"A  little,  my  newy,"  answered  Jean,  confidently. 

He  handed  his  lantern  to  Garousse  and  drew  from  his  sack  a  bit  of  newspaper. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "I  read  this  while  I  was  drinkin'  over  there  at  th'  inn;  I  should 
have  got  tipsy,  as  you  say,  if  they  hadn't  passed  me  back  the  drunkard's  glass 
'thout  rinsing  it;  thash  why  I  preach  t'  you  so  well.  Listen : 

"' ANOTHER  SUICIDE.'" 

He  interrupted  himself  to  attend  to  the  charred  wick  of  his  candle. 

" Snuff  yourself,"  said  he.    "I  can't  see  a  thing." 

And  he  continued  slowly,  reading  without  slurring  his  words,  stammering  : 

"'A  man  in  the  prime  of  life  has  just  been  taken  from  the  Seine  and  carried  to 


The  Basket.  19 

the  Morgue.  He  should  have  been  taken  on  a  hurdle.'  Hm !  what  sort  of  'n  ani- 
mal *sh  that?  Well,  never  mind,  I  haven't  my  dictionary.  'A  letter  found  on 
him  proves  that  he  was  one  more  madman  unable  to  endure  the  trials  of  life.' 
Thirst,  for  sure.  'Better  dead  than  poor,  said  this  crazy  coward.'  Hear  that?" 

"Really,"  said  Garousse,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  "morality  from  below  followed 
by  morality  from  above  1  Go  on." 

Jean,  reeling  about  in  his  seat  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  piece  of  paper,  resumed 
his  reading. 

" '  There  is  no  greater  crime  against  religion  and  soci-i  i-e-e-ty  than  suicide,  that 
son  of  idleness  and  pride  1  Suicide  is  the  brother  of  murder.  Worse,  perhaps. 
It  is  murder  without  the  risk.  The  man  who  commits  it  is  a  guilty  coward,  a 
deserter,  a  merchant  of  wine'  —  No,  theresh  no  wine  there  —  'a  merchant  who 
goes  into  bankruptcy,  everything  that  is  cowardly  and  vile.'  And  so  forth  and  so 
on.  Yes,  as  much  as  to  say  the  comrade  who  does  not  empty  his  glass,  a  pretender, 

a  good-for-nothing,  a  blunderhead.  '  He  is ' but  the  paper's  torn.  To  be 

continued  in  our  next.  What  an  oration,  hey?  What  an  epitaph  1  How  it  strikes 
home!  How  patl  The  purest  of  wisdom  I  What  have  you  to  answer,  coward? 
Hey  ?  Drown  yourself  now,  if  you  want  to." 

And  brutally,  as  if  branding  the  duke,  the  rag-picker  clapped  the  bit  of  news- 
paper on  his  shoulder,  saying  in  his  rough  drunken  voice : 

"  Theresh  your  mark.     Keep  it  1 " 

Then  he  started  off,  staggering  and  grumbling : 

"Hml  Hm!  The  reading  has  made  me  hoarse.  I'm  off  to  get  a  drink. 
Farewell ! " 

Garousse  took  the  newspaper  and  read  the  passage  again. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  bitterly,  "  fine  morality  to  be  read  at  the  table  at  the  Maison- 
Doree.  Ah  1  thus  the  world  treats  those  who  wish  to  rid  it  of  their  presence,  who, 
like  myself,  prefer  death  to  ignoble  poverty." 

Jean,  who  had  made  a  pretence  of  going  away,  returned  to  the  charge. 

"I  say!"  he  cried  out  to  Garousse,  "if  you're  still  bent  on  killing  yourself,  I'll 
keep  your  basket.  'Sh  th'  only  thing  I  need  to  bury  Rothschild." 

With  this  conclusion  he  started  off  again,  singing  at  the  top  of  his  voice  his 
favorite  refrain : 

Forever  wine  I 
Forever  juice  divine' 


20  The  Bag-Pick&r  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  BANK  COLLECTOR. 

Garousse  walked  back  and  forth  with  long  strides,  turning  and  twisting  on  the 
quai  like  a  tiger  in  his  cage.  He  seemed  to  be  revolving  in  his  over-excited  brain 
an  idea  even  more  frightful  than  suicide. 

"'Everything  that  is  cowardly  and  vile,'"  said  he,  repeating  the  last  phrase  of 
the  newspaper  article.  "Well,  no  I  Neither  cowardice  nor  villainy,  neither  water 
nor  wine,  neither  the  mud  of  the  street  nor  the  hurdle  of  the  press.  If  I  do  this, 
I  shall  be  an  object  of  terror.  Better  an  object  of  terror  than  of  shame.  Away 
then  with  the  thought  of  another  suicide ;  crime's  the  thing !  Yes,  a  curse,  a  curse 
not  on  myself  alone,  but  also  a  curse  upon  others !  " 

lie  looked  steadily  before  him,  in  a  fit  of  dizziness,  his  hand  stretched  out  as  if 
to  recover  all  his  losses,  riches,  pleasures,  loves,  his  head  on  fire,  his  eyes  bloodshot, 
seeing  everything  in  red. 

Prey  to  a  spasm  of  homicidal  madne'ss,  he  brandished  his  hook  as  if  to  strike  a 
hoped-for  victim. 

"What  do  I  see?"  he  cried,'hiding  suddenly  in  the  dark  angle  of  the  wine-shop. 
"  Oh  I  Providence  of  evil,  you  serve  better  than  the  Providence  of  good." 

And  he  did  not  stir,  crouching  behind  a  part  of  the  wall  which  screened  him 
from  the  street-lamp. 

Two  bank  collectors,  dressed  in  blue  uniforms  with  brass  buttons  and  wearing 
on  their  heads  the  three-cornered  hats  looked  upon  as  an  essential  of  their  profes- 
sion equally  with  their  honesty,  were  rapidly  approaching,  completing  their  route 
and  talking. 

One  of  them  carried  on  his  back  a  heavy  money-bag,  and  an  enormous  bank- 
book, held  by  a  strong  but  small  chain,  stuck  half-way  out  of  his  front  pocket. 

"What  a  day!"  said  he  to  his  companion.  "I  have  been  delayed  by  the  weight 
of  the  receipts.  Let  us  double  our  pace.  Do  you  know  that  we  carry  on  our  per- 
sons half  the  wealth  of  the  house?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  other,  "it  is  heavy  and  tempting.  But  here  we  are  in  Paris. 
Suppose  I  leave  you  and  go  home?  There  is  no  more  danger  now?" 

"No.  Thank  you,  and  farewell  till  tomorrow.  As  for  me,  I  am  going  to  get  rid 
of  this  load  as  fast  as  possible  in  order  to  go  home  myself.  My  wife  must  be 


The  Basket.  21 

"  Think  of  mine,  then !  She  is  in  confinement,  you  know.  One  mouth  more  to 
feed." 

"  I  know  that,"  said  the  collector  with  the  big  bank-book ;  "  but  bah  1  when  one 
has  health,  what  matters  it?" 

His  honest  face  beamed.     He  continued: 

"  I  have  a  little  girl,  Marie,  a  love  of  a  child.  She  is  as  big  as  a  cent's  worth  of 
butter  and  gives  me  a  hundred  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  joy.  Oh!  I  am  happy. 
You  see,  Louis,  a  child  is  the  joy  of  a  house." 

"  Or  its  sorrow,"  said  the  other,  shaking  his  head. 

"Yes,  but  when  one  has  heart  together  with  health  and  work"  .... 

"  He  has  all,  you  are  right,  Jacques.     That's  what  I  meant." 

"  Be  off,  then ;  let  me  detain  you  no  longer.     Good  evening,  Dupont." 

"  Good  night,  Didier." 

Thus  they  separated,  each  going  in  his  own  direction. 

He  whom  his  comrade  had  just  called  Jacques  Didier  continued  on  his  way, 
apart  from  the  other,  and  directing  his  steps  towards  the  lamp  in  front  of  the 
wine-shop. 

He  walked  briskly,  thinking  of  his  day's  work  done,  his  duty  fulfilled,  his 
family's  bread  earned,  and  rest  by  his  humble  fireside  with  his  young  wife  and  his 
little  Marie. 

Suddenly,  as  he  reached  the  wine-shop,  at  the  corner  of  the  quai,  a  threatening 
form  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  the  wall,  and  a  terrible  voice  hurled  these  words 
into  the  silence  of  the  night : 

"  It  is  over  1    Blood.  .  .  .  gold ! " 

Jacques  Didier  stopped  short  with  a  cry  of  distress. 

"Help!  help!" 

He  had  received  a  stunning  blow.  Blood  spurted  from  a  small  but  deep  hole  in 
his  temple. 

Fatally  wounded,  he  staggered  a  moment;  his  outstretched  hands  seemed  to 
grasp  at  some  means  of  salvation  and  clutched  in  the  empty  air;  then,  uprooted, 
losing  his  footing,  he  fell  at  full  length,  like  a  tree. 

Garousse,  frightened  but  determined,  threw  down  his  bloody  hook  and  leaped 
upon  his  victim  like  a  vulture  on  its  prey. 

Didier  then  made  a  last  resistance.  With  his  failing  arms  he  surrounded  the 
precious  money-bag,  and  like  a  faithful  dog  defending  to  the  last  his  master's  pro- 
perty, he  gave,  in  spite  of  his  death  agony,  a  final  sign  of  energy  and  honor. 

The  assassin  had  to  use  all  his  strength  in  plundering  the  unfortunate  Didier. 
Death  came  to  the  aid  of  crime  against  the  duty  that  still  defended  the  coveted 
receipts.  The  man  of  duty  at  last  let  go  his  hold  with  a  plaintive  groan. 

With  his  foot  on  the  money-bag,  Garousse  took  hold  of  the  bank-book,  fastened 
by  its  chain  to  a  button-hole  of  the  uniform,  and  tried  to  tear  it  away. 


22  The  Ray-Picker  of  Paris. 

At  that  moment  a  sound  of  hurried  steps  fell  upou  his  ear.  Frightened,  he 
dropped  the  chaiu,  which  had  held  firm,  and  quickly,  to  make  an  end,  he  rum- 
maged the  bank-book  lined  with  bills  and  stuffed  the  bundles  into  his  pockets  by 
the  handful;  then,  his  infamous  task  ended,  he  was  about  to  flee,  when  Jean,  re- 
called by  the  cries,  came  running  up  with  an  uncertain  gait,  calling  out : 

"Well,  what's  the  matter  there?" 

And  throwing  down  his  sack  in  order  to  run  faster,  he  fell  upon  Garousse  just 
as  he  was  picking  up  the  money-bag. 

"  Assassin  1  robber  1  false  brother!     To  dishonor  the  profession !     Help!  Wait!" 

Garousse  tried  to  release  himself  from  Jean's  grasp. 

"  Will  you  be  silent,  you  rascal?"  he  said,  in  a  hollow  voice,  while  Jean  screamed 
like  a  dog  at  a  wolf. 

A  short  struggle  ensued  between  them,  near  the  inert  body  of  the  bank  collector. 

The  guilty  man  saw  that  he  was  lost  if  the  combat  lasted.  He  made  a  desperate 
effort;  his  iron  hand  seized  the  rag-picker's  throat;  and,  with  an  irresistible 
strain,  he  threw  him  down  by  the  side  of  the  poor  Didier. 

"Ah!  brigand!"  exclaimed  Jean,  with  a  choking  voice.  "What  a  wrist! 
What  a  throw!  I  shall  not  soon  forget  it." 

Garousse  freely  picked  up  the  money-bag.  For  a  moment  he  looked  at  the  two 
men  stretched  at  his  feet;  then,  slapping  his  pockets  stuffed  with  bank-notes,  he 
burst  into  a  diabolical  laugh. 

"Neither  cowardly  nor  vile,"  he  cried.  "Blood  and  gold.  Now  I  have  the 
wherewithal  to  live  respectable  and  rich,  and  so  I  will  live." 

The  storm  had  redoubled  in  fury,  drowning  in  its  continuous  roar  the  echoes  of 
this  double  struggle.  Nature  seemed  no  longer  indifferent  to  this  human  tragedy ; 
the  night  made  itself  the  murderer's  accomplice,  an  English  night :  Paris  disguised 
as  London  for  its  carnival.  One  could  not  see  ten  steps  before  him.  The  assas- 
sin disappeared  as  if  he  had  plunged  into  the  earth.  No  one  but  the  rag-picker 
had  seen  or  heard  him. 

Jean  got  up  painf  ully. 

"  Good  God  1 "  he  repeated.  "What  a  throw!  What  a  wrist  1  It  has  sobered 
me." 

In  fact,  a  new  expression  had  replaced  his  bewildered  look.  He  was  trans- 
figured. He  seemed  awakened  from  the  bestial  sleep  of  Circe,  returning  by  the  way 
of  Damascus,  converted  by  a  revelation,  possessed  by  a  vision  and  an  inner  voice 
which  cried  out  to  him:  "Jean,  you  are  guilty  alsol  What  have  you  done  with 
Jacques?"  .  .  .  what  the  mystics  and  Biblicals  formerly  called  a  divine  miracle, 
but  which  was  only  the  natural  awakening  of  the  moral  sense,  of  social  duty.  In 
the  corpse  of  his  fellow  Jean  had  found  again  his  conscience. 

The  rag-picker,  still  dazed  by  his  fall,  gathered  himself  up  and  took  his  head  in 
his  hands  in  order  to  drive  away  the  last  fumes  of  the  alcohol. 


The  Basket.  23 

A  voice  which  seemed  like  a  death-rattle,  so  slow  and  feeble  was  it,  recalled  him 
to  reality. 

"  My  wife !     My  child ! " 

Jean  again  saw  Jacques  lying  before  him,  clasping  bis  hands  in  an  impulse  of 
ineffable  affection  and  breathing  a  last  farewell  to  all  that  he  loved. 

"Ohl  poor,  poor  man!"  murmured  the  rag-picker,  in  the  heartfelt  tone  of  a 
Good  Samaritan.  "His  family  1  Nothing  else  was  lacking  1" 

He  bent  over  the  dying  man  covered  with  blood. 

"His  wife  1  his  child  I"  he  continued;  "it  is  enough  to  break  one's  heart." 

And  suppressing  his  emotion  in  order  to  console  the  unfortunate  money-carrier, 
he  said: 

"  Rest  easy.  Some  good  soul  perhaps  will  look  out  for  them.  I  at  least  will  do 
what  I  can.  Your  name,  friend?" 

And  Jacques,  with  a  last  unfinished  gesture,  pointing  to  th'e  bank-book  hanging 
to  his  blue  coat,  ejaculated: 

"  Berville  Bank.  .  .  .  Jacques  Didier.  ...  I  defended  it  ...  but  .  .  .  Oh ! " 

All  was  over.  The  body  stiffened  and  stretched  out,  forever  motionless,  inani- 
mate. The  victim  of  the  Duke  Garousse  had  just  expired  in  the  arms  of  the  rag- 
picker. 

The  measured  and  sonorous  tread  of  a  patrol  then  mingled  with  the  noise  of  the 
squalls,  unchained  and  furious,  which  blew  down  chimneys  and  tore  off  roofs  in  a 
dismal  whirlwind.  It  rained  tiles;  blinds  opened  and  closed  again,  grinding  on 
their  hinges  and  slamming  against  the  walls. 

In  the  uproar  of  this  nocturnal  tempest  Jean  neither  heard  nor  saw  the  guard. 
He  detached  the  bank-book,  which  bore  in  gilt  letters  the  address  of  the  Berville 
Bank  and  the  name  of  the  bank  collector,  Jacques  Didier.  Trembling  and  agi- 
tated as  if  he  were  the  author  of  the  crime,  Jean  examined  the  bank-book  to  see  if 
it  was  really  empty,  and,  reassured,  put  it  under  his  blouse. 

"And  he  has  killed  him,  the  scoundrel,"  he  exclaimed,  shaking  his  head.  "A 
poor  devil  of  a  man  of  the  people  like  ourselves.  God  1  is  it  possible  that  we 
should  eat  each  other  thus?  Worse  than  the  wolves  1  Ahl  the  Cain!  It  was 
worth  while,  indeed,  to  stop  him  from  killing  himself  that  he  might  kill  another ! 
The  bad  saved  at  the  expense  of  the  good !  It  is  my  fault." 

Indignant  at  himself,  he  dealt  his  chest  a  rude  blow;  then  he  continued: 

"  That's  what  comes  of  being  drunk.  I  should  have  let  the  bandit  drown,  or  at 
least  I  should  have  aided  the  other  1  I  should  have  had  legs,  arms,  a  head  of  my 
own,  and  eyes  to  seel  I  should  have  been  a  man,  in  short,  not  a  brute  1" 

And,  folding  his  arms,  he  added  in  a  terrible  voice : 

"  I  have  drunk  the  blood  of  a  man ! " 

Then,  falling  on  his  knees  before  the  corpse,  bareheaded,  with  the  respect  of  a 
Parisian  for  death,  he  extended  his  hand  solemnly,  and  said : 


24  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"I  renounce  wine  forever.  That  shall  be  my  penalty.  No,  not  another  dropl 
I  swear  it  here  over  the  body  of  this  unfortunate,  killed  by  my  drunkenness  as  well 
as  by  this  brigand's  hook.  I  am  his  accomplice." 

Still  the  patrol  approached. 

Jean  rose  and  noticed  at  last  the  sound  of  the  guards  making  their  round,  queer 
police,  announcing  with  their  heavy  resounding  steps  their  useless  arrival  as  power- 
less for  the  prevention  of  the  crime  as  for  the  arrest  of  the  criminal. 

"I  must  not  stay  here,"  exclaimed  the  rag-picker,  hurriedly.  "There's  nothing 
to  be  gained  by  the  side  of  a  corpse.  And  my  sack? " 

He  ran  against  Garousse's  basket. 

"Ah  I  his  basket!  An  entirely  new  one,  too!  And  to  steal  when  he  had  that! 
A  vicious  rascal,  indeed !  Yes,  to  bad  hands  the  good  tools." 

While  making  his  reflections,  he  put  the  basket  on  his  back  and  picked  up  the 
hook  stained  with  Didier's  blood. 

"Mine  the  inheritance,"  he  concluded,  "and  with  it  to  do  my  best  to  help  the 
wife  and  child  of  this  poor  fellow.  .  .  .  Ah !  if  he  had  carried  only  rags,  as  I  do ! 
But  the  other, — if  ever  I  find  him  again.  He  was  not  worth  even  this  sack, — 
yes,  to  be  put  into  it ! " 

And,  taking  his  old  sack,  he  threw  it  into  the  basket. 

The  forms  of  the  soldiers  were  becoming  visible  in  the  darkness,  a  few  steps 
away. 

Jean  put  out  his  lantern  and  crouched  down. 

"  The  patrol  1 "  he  exclaimed.    "  High  time,  I  should  think  1 " 

But  he  had  just  been  seen  and  hailed. 

"Who  goes  there?" 

"A  dead  man,"  said  he,  as  he  stole  away.     "  Too  late,  snails,  good  evening ! " 

The  patrol  came  into  full  view  at  the  corner  of  the  wine-shop,  keeping  step  with 
regulation  indifference,  and  halted  under  the  lamp  that  lighted  the  body  of  Jacques 
Didier.  .  .  . 


The  Basket,  25 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  BERVILLE  MANSION. 

Midway  of  the  Rue  du  Louvre  rose  a  heavy  and  cumbrous  freestone  structure, 
high  if  not  grand,  whose  ponderous  aspect  and  strong-box  solidity  indicated  the 
establishment  of  a  bourgeois  master-Plutus,  preferring  rough  stone  to  mouldings 
and  placing  security  and  comfort  before  taste,  style,  and  art. 

On  a  clean  black  marble  tablet,  fastened  to  the  wall,  appeared  this  simple  inscrip- 
tion in  shining  and  well-kept  silver  letters : 

BERVILLH  BANK. 

The  lower  part  of  the  edifice — ground-floor  and  second  story — was  divided  sym- 
metrically, by  doors  containing  slides,  into  a  cashier's  office,  counting-rooms,  and 
manager's  office.  Much  order  and  no  luxury,  everything  necessary,  nothing  super- 
fluous, a  massive  and  substantial  whole.  The  upper  part — three  stories — served 
as  the  private  residence  of  the  owner,  M.  Berville,  recently  left  a  widower,  with  his 
only  son,  Camille,  a  school-boy  of  nine  years,  and  his  cousin,  Mile.  Gertrude  Ber- 
ville, who,  on  the  death  of  her  relative,  had  assumed  the  care  of  the  house. 

The  banker,  a  man  of  mature  age,  already  fat,  with  an  apoplectic  look,  at  the 
zenith  of  life  and  success,  was,  like  almost  all  Parisians,  from  the  country,  which 
is  ever  recruiting  Paris  with  its  best  blood.  Which  makes  Paris  really  France. 

M.  Berville,  then,  had  come  from  Bourges,  where  he  had  succeeded,  to  Paris, 
where  he  succeeded  better  still.  Ambitious  only  for  wealth,  industrious,  exact, 
trained  for  his  business,  as  precise  and  orderly  as  clock-work,  he  was  born  a  spe- 
cialist and  strong  consequently  in  his  single  capacity  of  calculating  profit. 

To  a  certain  extent  he  shared,  no  doubt,  the  ideas  of  his  class  and  age.  Vol- 
tairean  in  religion,  liberal  in  politics,  constitutional  in  principle;  but  at  bottom  his 
creed  was  his  cash-box,  the  charter  his  ledger,  the  Constitution  his  coin;  his  figures 
were  his  principles,  his  business  his  honor;  and  his  opinions,  more  metallic  than 
religious  and  political,  all  passed  through  his  strong-box  before  reaching  his  head 
and  his  heart.  Interest  was  his  real  passion,  dominating  everything  in  him, — 
religion,  society,  and  even  family,  so  dear  to  the  bourgeois.  His  country  was  his 
pocket.  His  France  stretched  from  the  Bourse  to  the  Bank,  and  the  future  of  the 


26  Tke  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

nation  was  the  end  of  the  month.  In  short,  he  counted  as  he  breathed,  as  the  bird 
flies  and  the  fish  swims,  by  birth  and  training  a  perfect  banker. 

Like  father,  like  son,  says  the  proverb, — .an  error.  Like  mother,  like  son, — 
that  is  the  truth.  Washington's  mother  was  worthy;  Bonaparte's  mother  was 
base.  A  wise  law  of  nature  which  seeks  variety  in  human  unity,  and  in  the  ab- 
sence of  which  the  world  would  always  be  one  and  the  same  man.  Berville's  son, 
then,  stood  as  the  contrast  of  his  father  and  the  image  of  his  mother.  For,  by  an- 
other law  of  nature  no  less  wisely  ordered  for  the  variety  and  progress  of  the  race, 
by  the  very  attraction  of  opposites,  the  man  of  money  had  married  a  woman  of 
heart. 

Catherine  Berville,  a  beautiful  and  good  creature,  belonging  to  the  same  class  as 
her  husband  but  of  city  and  republican  stock,  a  daughter  of  the  French  Revolution,  a 
pupil  of  the  philosophy  of  the  great  century,  that  of  Rousseau  and  Voltaire,  the 
century  infatuated  with  humanity,  had  learned  to  read  in  "Emile."  She  had 
broken  with  the  Bible,  giving  her  son  a  Roman  name.  Democratic  although  bour- 
geoise,  and  of  the  people  although  rich,  she  was  the  Providence  of  the  neighborhood. 
The  poor  called  her  the  good  lady. 

But  her  tender  affections  and  her  lofty  aspirations  had  been  speedily  checked  by 
the  marital  arithmetic ;  she  had  concentrated  all  her  woman's  heart  in  her  child. 
She  was  nothing  but  a  mother,  but  completely  a  mother.  Her  son  was  her  life, 
her  faith,  her  law,  her  gold;  she  lived  only  for  him;  to  her  he  was  the  Divine 
Child !  At  Bourges,  a  lady  of  charity,  by  precept,  example,  and  practice,  this  Cor- 
nelia had  taught  him  humanity;  she  had  taught  him  to  write  by  dictating  bread 
tickets  to  him,  showing  him  the  poor  and  saying  to  him :  "  Their  bread  makes  your 
cake."  At  Paris,  under  the  influence  of  the  change  of  air  and  life,  deprived  of  her 
benevolent  habits  and  above  all  of  her  son,  who  had  been  left  at  school  in  Bourges, 
as  indifferent  to  pleasures  as  to  business,  she  soon  declined  and  succumbed,  suffo- 
cated by  the  verdigris  atmosphere  in  which  her  husband  prospered.  She  died, 
leaving  the  best  part  of  herself,  her  greatest  wealth,  her  heart,  to  a  child  made  in 
her  own  image,  —  the  -work  par  excellence  of  woman,  a  child  destined  to  become  a 
man  worthy  of  the  name. 

Camille,  in  fact,  was  more  than  a  resemblance,  he  was  a  survival  of  his  mother. 
"  That  boy  will  never  bite  at  a  bargain,"  said  the  banker,  thinking  of  his  heir  and 
looking  at  his  offspring  with  an  air  of  stupefaction. 

Full  of  fun  and  feeling,  Impulsive,  charming  and  excellent,  Camille  pleased  every- 
body except  the  author  of  his  being. 

A  precocious,  passionate,  spontaneous  child,  the  pet  of  his  mother,  the  terror  of 
his  father,  a  Gavarni,  he,  thanks  to  the  memory  of  his  mother's  love  and  to  his 
filial  piety,  preserved  the  respect  of  himself  and  of  others,  kept  himself  unbroken 
and  undamaged,  and  maintained  his  originality  and  his  purity  even  in  school,  in 
that  promiscuity  of  the  boarding-school,  as  harmful  physically  and  morally  as  that 


The  Basket.  27 

of  the  convent,  of  the  barracks,  of  the  hospital,  and  of  the  prison ;  in  which  chil- 
dren rub  against  each  other,  wearing  each  other  away  like  pebbles  on  the  shore, 
staining  each  other  like  plums  in  a  basket;  from  which  most  of  them  come  out  dry 
or  rotten  fruit,  deprived  too  early  of  their  mothers'  teaching,  of  woman's  moral 
nursing,  of  the  influence  of  the  family  which  suffers  no  less  than  the  child,  as  ill 
reared  as  taught,  all  formed  after  one  pattern  like  their  dress  coats,  all  cast  in  the 
same  mould,  having  lost,  to  the  detriment  of  society  itself,  independence,  initia- 
tive, individuality,  personality,  and  liberty. 

Through  his  mother's  influence  Camille  escaped  this  deformation.  A  liberal 
school-boy  at  the  Jesuitical  epoch  when  the  school  resembled  the  ecclesiastical  semi- 
nary, lie  was  even  then  secretly  reading  Beranger  instead  of  Loriquet.  Rebellious 
against  the  clerical  and  royal  spirit,  he  got  expelled  from  school  for  two  offences. 
He  had  taken  a  drink  of  the  wine  while  serving  the  mass ;  and,  like  the  people,  he 
had  described  as  malodorous  the  huge  fleur  de  lys,  emblem  of  the  big  king,  Louis 
XVIII.,  which  that  "fat  hog"  had  brought  back  from  Ghent  with  the  Charter  and 
placed  everywhere,  even  on  the  school-boys'  buttons. 

Camille  had  then  come  back  to  his  father's,  dismissed  and  recommended  with 
this  complimentary  remark  promising  well  for  his  future :  sacrilegious,  seditious, 
incorrigible,  an  utterly  worthless  scamp. 

"The  child  is  father  of  the  man,"  says  the  English  proverb,  with  humor  and 
sagacity.  We  shall  see  its  truth. 

Mademoiselle  Gertrude  Berville,  who  affected  to  call  herself  de  Berville,  was 
different. 

Already  an  old  maid,  irreproachable,  impeccable,  as  stiff  and  starched  as  a  dragon- 
fly, always  looking  as  if  just  out  of  a  band-box,  pretentious  and  affected  like  every 
woman  who  reads  Balzac,  steeped  in  devotion  and  nobility,  she  was  as  singular  as 
the  two  other  members  of  the  family,  of  whom,  however,  she  was  sincerely  fond; 
for  beneath  her  ridiculous  ways  of  a  Berri  woman  wedded  to  God  and  the  king  she 
was  not  without  heart  or  mind.  Perverted  by  a  false  ideal  and  an  intense  need  of 
authority,  she  divided  her  time  between  her  domestic  reign  and  the  worship — with 
strictly  honorable  intentions — of  an  abbe,  her  confessor,  of  whom  she  took  as  good 
care  as  of  her  dog,  going  every  morning  to  mass  in  an  equipage  which  she  ordered 
harnessed  simply  to  take  her  across  the  street  from  the  house  to  the  church  and 
back.  In  all  things  and  for  all  things  Mile,  de  Berville  liked  the  grand  style. 

At  Bourges,  the  cathedral  town  par  excellence,  she  did  not  go  out  of  the  church  ; 
she  was  wholly  devoted  to  the  chapel  of  Mary,  to  the  month  of  Mary,  to  the  flowers 
and  robes  of  Mary.  .  She  was  called  the  Holy  Virgin's  maid. 

The  influence  of  the  Church  in  the  provinces,  especially  in  a  cathedral  town  like 
Bourges,  is  extraordinary.  The  Church  fills  the  same  place  hi  the  minds  of  its 
patrons  that  its  temple  fills  on  the  pavements  of  the  streets.  At  sunrise  the  stone 
leviathan  covers  with  its  deadly  shade  one-half  the  city,  and  all  its  souls  through- 


28  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

-out  the  day.  Its  bell  is  heard  for  five  miles  around.  Its  towers  may  be  seen  at  a 
distance  of  twenty  miles.  Its  power  is  proportional  to  the  ennui  of  its  flock. 
Ennui,  that  bane  of  the  provinces,  that  rust  of  the  heart,  which  takes  possession  of 
the  inhabitants  of  these  dead  cities  as  the  grass  takes  possession  of  their  streets, 
— ennui  delivers  them,  especially  the  women,  body,  soul,  and  possessions,  to  the 
Church,  which  exploits  their  idleness,  the  two  cardinal  passions  of  the  human  soul, 
hope  and  fear,  and  even  their  need  of  social  life.  In  the  provinces,  where  a 
department  is  still  called  a  diocese,  the  Church  has  no  competitors  as  in  Paris,  no 
offsets  like  the  great  theatres,  the  concerts,  the  museums,  the  meetings,  and  all  the 
distractions  of  the  capital. 

The  Church  alone  has  this  grandeur  and  this  variety.  Such  as  they  are,  it  offers 
the  multitude  festivities,  music,  painting,  decorations,  costumes,  all  its  spectacular 
effects,  free  of  charge.  It  breaks  the  monotony  of  isolation  by  gatherings,  and  the 
prose  of  daily  life  by  ceremonies.  Thus  it  meets  more  or  less  the  individual  need 
of  collective  life.  While  the  man,  rich  or  poor,  is  with  his  fellows  in  the  wine-shop 
or  the  cafe,  the  woman  has  only  the  Church  in  which  to  seek  her  associates,  whe- 
ther in  silk  or  woollen,  and  satisfy  her  instincts  of  art,  of  the  ideal,  of  curiosity, 
and  of  society.  This  explains  why  women  were  the  first,  as  the  Bible  says,  and 
will  be  the  last,  to  see  God.  That  only  is  really  destroyed  which  is  replaced;  and 
so  far  the  Holy  Mother  alone  holds  her  children  in  her  bosom  from  their  birth 
until  their  death  and  even  afterwards. 

Gertrude  Berville,  left  an  orphan  with  a  pious  guardian  and  a  large  fortune,  had 
been  speedily  captured  by  the  priests,  who  had  called  her  angel  and  then  saint, 
and  overwhelmed  her  with  caresses  and  blessings,  receiving  in  return  her  entire 
affection  both  as  a  child  and  as  a  rich  and  devout  young  girl. 

Baptized,  confessed,  communicated,  confirmed,  and  canonized  in  advance  by 
them,  in  hope  of  inheriting  her  property,  she  had  passed  through  all  the  sacraments 
except  that  of  marriage;  and  doubtless  she  would  have  ended  by  that  of  the  Order, 
but  for  the  death  of  her  cousin,  which  had  restored  her  to  the  family.  Neglected 
by  the  stronger  sex  in  spite  of  her  dowry,  she  had  not  given  herself  to  God  without 
a  sigh  or  a  desire  for  man.  She  had  not  yet  taken  the  veil,  clinging  to  the  vague 
hope  of  a  spouse  less  polygamic  and  more  earthly  than  the  husband  of  all  the 
female  saints  in  Paradise. 

Already  past  the  age  of  thirty,  slim  and  frail  physically,  long  rather  than  tall, 
pale  rather  than  hale,  slender  but  not  graceful  and  beautiful  but  not  charming, 
elegant  without  chic  and  coquettish  without  the  power  of  captivatiou,  precisely  as 
an  effect  of  celibacy  so  contrary  to  nature,  especially  in  women,  who  more  than 
men  are  observant  of  nature,  she  was  still  thin  at  an  age  when  she  should  have 
been  stout,  and  slim  when  she  should  have  been  plump.  Youth  without  lustre  and 
maturity  without  power,  there  was  something  of  the  faded  rose  and  shrivelled 
apple  about  her  which  inspired  regret  rather  than  desire. 


The  Basket.  29 

Lettered  moreover,  well  informed,  as  arch  and  cunning  as  a  cat,  devout  without 
austerity  and  feminine  without  frivolity,  capable  of  exaltation  and  enthusiasm,  she 
had  nothing  in  common  with  the  Berville  race  save  the  spirit  of  despotism  and 
economy,  accompanied,  however,  not  by  greed  or  severity,  but  even  by  generosity; 
ridiculous  certainly,  but  interesting  in  spite  of  prejudices  and  faults  due  rather  to 
her  surroundings  than  her  person,  and  of  which  she  was  a  victim  rather  than  a 
guilty  cause;  in  short,  superior,  far  superior,  to  her  constitutional  cousin,  whom 
she  regarded  as  a  well-bred  man,  who  for  a  moment  had  thought  of  marrying  her 
for  the  sake  of  domestic  economy,  but  who,  finding  her  sufficiently  devoted  without 
it,  had  abandoned  the  design  without  sorrow  either  on  her  part  or  on  his  own. 

Such  was  the  Berville  trinity  seated  at  table  on  Mardi  Gras,  1828,  at  a  Carnival 
dinner  given  to  all  the  celebrities  of  Parisian  bourgeois  society. 

The  Paris  of  Berville  was  not  that  of  Garousse  or  of  Jean. 

We  then  had  three  classes  in  France.  The  Restoration  had  reconstructed  the 
orders  which  the  Revolution  had  torn  down,  —  Nobility,  Clergy,  and  Third  Estate. 
It  had  even  divided  the  Third  Estate  into  two  parts,  the  bourgeoisie  and  the  plebe- 
ians, which,  united,  had  made  the  Revolution,  and  formerly  France  itself  through 
Jacques  Coeur  and  Jeanne  d'Arc,  and  which  may  ruin  everything,  both  Revolution 
and  France,  by  their  disunion. 

The  One  and  Indivisible  of  '92  no  longer  existed,  then,  in  1828,  any  more  than 
it  exists  in  188G.  Let  us  hope  for  it  at  the  centenary. 

There  were  then  the  feudalist,  the  bourgeois,  and  the  proletaire;  De  Garousse, 
Berville,  and  Jean;  carnivora,  ruminants,  and  stereovora;  three  faubourgs, — 
Saint-Germain,  Saint-Honore",  and  Saint-Antoine ;  palace,  mansion,  and  garret; 
three  social  strata  corresponding  to  the  three  racial  strata,  the  Frank,  the  Gallo- 
Roman,  and  the  Celt,  composed  or  rather  superposed  in  the  alloy  which  constituted 
France,  and  which  is  still  better  represented  by  a  mixed  railway  train  containing 
first,  second,  and  third-class  cars. 

In  this  social  chemistry  the  two  real  elements  of  the  nation,  the  bourgeoisie 
and  the  people,  were  still  held  together  by  the  common  hatred  of  the  carabas  and 
the  calotins,*  and  of  their  Bourbon  princes  again  enthroned  by  the  foreigner. 

The  bourgeois,  through  envy  of  the  nobility,  disgust  with  the  priesthood,  and  fear 
for  their  national  possessions;  Bonapartists  on  half-pay,  in  the  rancor  of  defeat 
and  hope  of  revenge;  Orleanists,  struggling  against  their  elders;  the  people, 
moved  by  their  love  of  country  and  liberty, — all  were  as  one,  forming  what  was 
called  the  liberal  party. 

Undoubtedly  a  philosopher  could  already  have  discerned  in  this  coalition  a  fatal 
cause  of  rupture,  though  latent  then  and  destined  not  to  manifest  itself  till  after 
the  victory,  the  revolution  of  July. 

*  Carabas  and  calotln  are  derisive  epithets  applied  to  the  nobles  and  the  priests  respectively. 


30  The,  Raff-Picker  of  Part*. 

Those  seated  at  the  Berville  table  on  the  evening  in  question,  in  a  dining-hall 
where  everything  was  rich  and  abundant,  with  provincial  solidity  beneath  Parisian 
refinement,  all  belonged,  whether  guests  or  hosts,  to  this  class  and  this  party. 

They  constituted  the  flower  of  liberalism,  the  pleiades  of  the  opposition,  finan- 
ciers first,  lawyers,  soldiers,  literary  men,  artists,  all  the  celebrities  of  the  bour- 
geoisie of  the  day. 

At  the  right  of  the  host  was  seated  his  friend,  his  master,  the  great  national 
banker,  Jacques  Laffitte,  in  a  dark  blue  coat  with  brass  buttons,  the  promoter  of 
the  Foy  subscription,  the  treasurer  of  the  party,  the  quarter-master  of  the  army, 
destined  to  be  minister  of  the  revolution  and  to  lose  his  fortune  in  victory.  By 
the  side  of  Laffitte,  his  confrere  and  rival,  Casimir  Perier,  who  was  to  supplant 
him,  and  his  protege,  the  young  little  Thiers,  who  was  to  betray  him.  Farther 
along  was  the  historian  of  the  cause,  Sism  ondi,  the  surest  and  also  the  soundest  of 
our  historians,  and  his  young  and  brilliant  pupil,  Lieutenant  Carrel,  the  pen  and 
sword  of  the  party,  the  rebel  of  Bidassoa  and  the  republican  of  the  "National," 
who  was  to  fall  by  the  bullet  of  a  thief.  Then  David  d'Angers,  the  sculptor  of 
Barra,  and  the  astronomer  Arago,  predicting  the  return  of  a  red  comet. 

Near  them  the  lawyer  of  the  middle  class  and  the  middle  king,  Dupin,  in  heavy 
iron-tipped  shoes,  more  rustic  than  Roland  and  more  crafty  than  Pathelin,  still  hot 
with  the  Orleanist  protest  against  the  birth  of  the  Count  de  Chambord,  and  already 
meditating  the  will  of  the  Prince  de  Conde'. 

And  the  Bonapartist  general,  the  Corsican,  Sebastiani,  destined  to  be  less  famous 
for  his  deeds  than  for  his  phrase,  "Order  reigns  at  Warsaw,"  and  for  his  poor  dead 
daughter  assassinated  by  the  hand  of  her  husband,  the  noble  Duke  de  Praslin. 

In  the  middle,  opposite  M.  Berville,  in  the  place  of  honor,  sat  the  eldest,  the 
venerable  patriarch  of  the  Revolution,  the  ex-Marquis  de  La  Fayette,  en  cheveux 
llancs  (in  the  words  of  the  poet  Delavigne),  who  had  cut  off  his  particle  together 
with  his  cue  on  the  night  of  the  Fourth  of  August  and  had  since  called  himself 
Lafayette  for  short;  the  "hero"  of  Two  Worlds,  a  would-be  Washington,  a  mis- 
carried Cromwell,  a  gallant  Warwick,  dethroner  of  kings  and  courtier  of  queens, 
still,  in  spite  of  his  age,  treating  all  the  fair  sex  as  Marie  Antoinettes,  and,  placed 
near  Mile.  Berville,  dominating  the  whole  company  by  his  high  stature,  his  great 
renown,  and  his  all-powerful  authority. 

At  the  left  of  Berville  was  Benjamin  Constant,  a  beau  of  the  Consulate,  a  skel- 
eton, with  three  garments  to  fill  him  out,  who,  like  a  certain  Greek,  would  have 
needed  lead  in  his  boots  to  hold  him  before  the  wind,  his  head  covered  with  long 
hair,  now  gray  but  formerly  light,  which  fell  over  his  shoulders  and  curled  angel- 
ically, in  the  style  of  Bernardin,  the  author  of  "  Virginie,"  his  chin  buried  in  a 
Directory  cravat,  in  the  style  of  Talleyrand;  in  short,  all  that  had  been  left  of  him 
by  his  fat  mistress,  daughter  of  a  Genevan  banker,  wife  of  a  German  baron,  and 
mother  of  a  French  duke,  Mme.  de  Stael.  Such  as  he  was,  he  was  the  tribune  of 


The  Basket.  81 

the  opposition.  The  King's  body-guards  had  demanded  satisfaction  (raison)  for  his 
last  speech,  and  he  had  answered  them  that  they  undoubtedly  stood  in  great  need 
of  reason  (raison),  but  that  he  had  not  so  much  that  he  could  spare  them  any. 
Which  had  amused  France. 

Then  there  was  the  deputy  Manuel,  still  covered  with  glory  by  his  expulsion 
from  the  Chamber  by  the  gendarmes  who  had  laid  hands  upon  him  after  the 
national  guards  on  duty  at  the  Palais-Bourbon  had  refused.  Which  had  made 
France  indignant. 

Then  his  friend  Beranger,  his  forehead  already  bald,  a  real  alabaster  globe  above 
his  two  handsome,  delicate,  soft,  radiant,  sparkling  blue  eyes,  who  had  just  lam- 
pooned in  song  the  Carabas  and  the  Hommes  noirs.*  Which  had  set  all  France 
singing. 

Without  counting  the  newspaper  writers  of  the  "Constitutionnel"  who  enlight- 
ened her,  Jay,  Jouy,  Jal,  and  even  the  publisher  Touquet,  —  in  short,  all  the  stars 
of  the  political  and  literary  firmament,  all  the  glories  of  liberalism,  all  the  forces 
of  that  opposition  which  was  turning  towards  conspiracy  to  end  in  Revolution. 
Brilliant  stars  then,  obscure  today,  which  have  had  their  influence,  shot  across  the 
heavens,  and  disappeared  in  the  limbo  or  become  nebulous  in  the  galaxy  of  his- 
tory, from  which  the  novel  rescues  them  for  a  moment  for  its  use  if  not  for  its 
pleasure. 

After  the  period  of  silence  with  which  a  grand  dinner  usually  begins,  there  was 
a  running  fire  of  raillery,  anecdote,  political,  literary,  and  financial  gossip  on  all 
the  subjects  of  the  day,  barring  the  fashions,  woman  not  being  represented  at  this 
table  of  black  coats,  save  by  Mile.  Berville,  who  represented  only  the  reaction  and 
the  kitchen. 

Witticisms  were  showered  on  the  Bourbons,  the  king  a  I'engrais,  Louis  XVIIL, 
and  his  honorary  mistress,  the  hunter,  Charles  X.,  and  his  Jesuit  confessor,  the 
Miraculous  child  and  his  immaculate  mother,  and  especially  the  responsible  min- 
isters, their  legislative  projects  and  administrative  policies,  the  double  vote,  right 
of  primogeniture,  law  of  love,  law  of  sacrilege,  tickets  of  confession,  abolition  of 
civil  marriage,  —  in  short,  all  the  clerical  and  royal  pretensions  contained  in  the 
ominous  Article  14  of  the  granted  Charter. 

The  scandals  and  crimes  of  the  clergy,  high  and  low,  of  Archbishop  Quelen  and 
Father  Mingrat,  were  no  less  bombarded. 

All  this  political  and  religious  artillery,  varied  with  financial  petards  regarding 
bonds  and  discounts,  conversions  and  loans,  rise  and  fall  of  prices,  heavy  stocks, 
the  latent  crisis,  suffering  commerce,  canals,  roads,  imports  and  exports,  —  all  was 
of  the  opposition. 

While  biting  the  legitimate  dynasty,  they  never  failed  to  set  their  teeth  in  bet- 

*The  priests. 


32  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

ter  meat.  Upon  the  artistic  appearance  and  the  flavor  of  each  dish  they  congra- 
tulated Mile.  Gertrude,  who,  the  only  woman  at  the  banquet,  with  her  abbe  beside 
her,  was  the  target  of  the  male  sex  and  threw  her  grain  of  feminine  salt  into  the 
conversation. 

"Well,"  she  replied  to  Benjamin  Constant,  an  epicure  who,  while  eating  the 
king  and  the  priest,  regaled  himself  and  complimented  her  on  a  languet  de  Vierzon* 
"will  you  always  speak  evil  of  religion?" 

"  A  monk's  dish  1 "  exclaimed  the  delighted  orator. 

"You  are  right;  I  hold  the  secret  directly  from  the  convent  of  the  Benedictines. 
Ask  ray  cousin,  M.  de  Berville." 

"Berville,  if  you  please,  cousin." 

"  Yes,  the  last  monk  whom  your  frightful  '93  expelled  from  the  convent  left  the 
receipt  to  my  aunt,  the  mother  of  my  cousin  de  Berville." 

"  Berville,  cousin." 

"You  see,  the  Church  has  done  some  good." 

"Ah  I  if  it  had  done  nothing  but  give  banquets!  "  said  the  orator,  laughing  and 
licking  his  chops. 

"Your  Revolution  has  not  done  as  much,  has  it?" 

"That  is  Voltaire's  fault." 

"To  say  nothing  of  the  burnt  almonds  of  Bourges,  and  the  pastries  of  Linieres, 
and  the  case-museaux  de  Mehun,  all  products  of  the  convents  of  our  religious  Berry." 

"  That  is  Rousseau's  fault." 

"  And  the  liquor  of  Chartreux,  and  the  gingerbread-nuts  of  Reims,  and  the  feet 
of  Sainte-Me'ne'hould,  cousin,"  added  M.  Berville,  who  liked  to  tease  her. 

"Your  guillotine  has  killed  cookery  with  the  rest.  No  more  Vatels;  I  am  go- 
ing to  discharge  mine,  first  because  he  swears,  which  I  do  not  like,  but  especially 
because  he  has  a  notion  that  he  will  not  make  the  white  sauces  which  I  like,"  said 
Gertrude,  laughing. 

"Ah I  if  our  poor  defunct  were  here,  what  a  lesson  in  equality  she  would  give 
you,  cousin." 

"Yes,  the  dear  republican  who  called  Our  Lord  Sans-Culotle  and  God  Citizen 
....  who  sang  her  child  to  sleep  with  the  Marseillaise.  That  God  may  forgive 
her  is  my  daily  prayer.  The  old  Christmas  hymn  and  the  blessed  bread  would 
have  been  better." 

"  Yes,  we  do  justice  to  the  Church,  but  at  the  table,  not  of  communion,  but  of 
Mardi  Gras,"  said  Constant.  "  This  fine  languet  makes  up  for  the  insipidity  of  the 
host." 

But  the  coarse  bourgeois  wit  of  the  sceptical  banker,  his  swaggering  incredulity 

*  This  phrase  and  another  occurring  a  few  paragraphs  farther  on ,  case-museaux  de  Mehun,  are  not  to 
be  fonnrt  In  the  dictionaries,  and  are  unknown  to  such  French  cooks  as  I  have  been  able  to  consult. 
They  doubtless  describe  dishes  or  products  peculiar  to  the  pluceg  specified  iu  them.  —  Translator. 


The  Basket.  33 

and  vulgarity,  redoubled  when  the  poultry  was  served,  a  turkey  truffled  ministe- 
rially which  he  invariably  called  a  Jesuit,  offering  Monsieur  the  abbe  the  rump, 
which  he  pitilessly  called  a  bishop's  cap,  and  accompanying  it  with  some  pastry, 
which,  to  cap  the  climax,  he  described  as  nun's  wind. 

There  was  only  a  shout  of  laughter. 

"  Respect  for  the  child,"  said  Gertrude. 

"With  the  mitre,"  said  M.  Berville  savagely  to  the  poor  martyr,  "you  cannot 
fail  to  succeed  the  archbishop  of  Paris,  and  even  become  cardinal-minister,  like 
Dubois,  or  at  least  king's  confessor,  like  Father  Cotton.  And,  speaking  of  confes- 
sion, have  you  read  Paul  Louis's  latest  pamphlet  on  celibacy?" 

The  abbe,  stout  and  fat,  Gertrude's  spiritual  director,  did  not  breathe  a  word, 
but  closed  his  ears  and  opened  his  mouth,  as  much  as  to  say,  like  his  Cardinal 
Mazarin,  "Let  them  sing,  they  will  pay  for  it!"  and  took  his  revenge  upon  the 
banker's  larded  truffles,  gluttony  being  the  most  venial  of  the  seven  capital  sins. 

Benjamin  Constant,  as  gluttonous  as  he  was  thin,  came  to  the  aid  of  the  priest 
out  of  sympathy  with  his  vice,  saying  that  the  Church  had  civilized  table  manners 
as  it  had  civilized  morality,  politics,  and  literature,  —  Alma  parent,  holy  mother  of 
all  knowledge  I 

And  straightway  the  conversation  took  an  upward  turn. 

"Well  and  good,"  said  Mile.  Gertrude,  "you,  a  Protestant,  do  more  justice  to 
Catholicism  than  these  freethinkers  like  my  cousin  de  Berville.  You  are  at  least 
Christian.  But  these  Voltaireans,  these  infidels,  these  atheists,  like  my  charming 
neighbor,  Beranger  ".  .  . 

"I  beg  pardon,  Mademoiselle,"  said  the  poet,  "I  an  atheist!  You  forget  the 
'  God  of  the  good  people.'  I  an  infidel  I  Not  to  '  Lisette.' " 

"It  is  true.  But  you  do  not  recognize  as  we  do  the  glory  of  the  century,  Mon- 
sieur the  Viscount  de  Chateaubriand,  the  illustrious  author  of  the  'Genius  of 
Christianity'".  .  . 

"And  of  'Rene*,'  the  incestuous." 

"You  do  not  like  our  modern  literature  so  original  and  so  new".  .  . 

"New,  humph!  as  new  as  the  Middle  Ages." 

"So  Catholic,  so  monarchical,  so  national".  .  . 

"  Like  Pitt  and  Cobourg." 

"Ah!  I  can  see  them  all  gathered  in  their  coterie  at  Abbaye-aux-Bois,  at  the 
beautiful,  noble,  and  pious  Madame  de  Recamier's." 

"Ah !  yes,  the  Magdalen  of  the  Directory,  but  little  repentant!     No,  indeed!" 

"Radiant  constellation,  of  which  Viscount  de  Chateaubriand  is  the  sun,  and  the 
planets  Viscount  d'Harlincourt,  Chevalier  de  Lamartine,  Baron  Taylor,  Count  de 
Vigny,  and  the  son  of  the  happy  Vendean,  the  young  Count  Victor  Hugo." 

"Yes,  all  counts.  .  .  the  Gotha  almanac.  .  .  all  nobles,  and  Apollo  was  a  shep- 
herd. .  .  .  stay,  you  forget  Dumas,  the  Marquis  de  la  Pailleterie,  a  negro  marquis, 
and  the  printer  Balzac,  who  has  also  become  a  noble  author,  —  Honore"  de  Balzac." 


34  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"Just  as  my  cousin  is  de  Berville,"  said  M.  Berville. 

"Oh,  speak  not  so  ill  of  the  noble  particle,"  said  Gertrude.  "Are  not  you  your- 
self, dear  poet,  noble  also,  M.  de  Beranger?" 

"  Oh  I  oh  1  if  my  father,  the  tailor,  could  hear  you  in  his  grave,  he  would  be  ca- 
pable of  recrossing  his  legs." 

"No  matter!  you,  a  poet,  you,  the  singer  of  'Lisette,'  admire  at  least  the  child 
of  genius  celebrating  in  song  the  child  of  miracle,  the  poet  of  the  'Ode  to  the  Duke 
de  Bordeaux '1  What  poetry!  'the  flower  of  the  grave.'" 

"Humph!  the  flower  of  the  grave!  what  a  perfume!  the  odor  is  unpleasant." 

"And  the  'Ode  to  the  Column,'  great  patriot,  what  do  you  think  of  that?" 

"Yes,  there  is  something  for  all  tastes,  except  mine.  You  see,  Mademoiselle," 
said  Beranger,  seriously,  "I  am  only  a  song-writer,  but  a  Frenchman;  and  all  your 
poets  are  only  foreign  troubadours,  English  and  German  minstrels,  sons,  and,  I 
fear,  fathers,  of  invasion.  Wellington  and  Biiicher  have  invaded  and  abandoned 
us;  but  they  have  left  us  their  fellow-countrymen,  Scott  and  Goethe!  Voltaire 
and  Rousseau  are  conquered,  like  France.  We  are,  I  repeat,  invaded  and  occupied. 
Are  we  going  to  progress  backwards,  advance  toward  the  rear,  retrace  our  steps, 
return  to  the  Middle  Ages,  and  relapse  into  childhood,  the  second,  the  ugly  child- 
hood, that  which  precedes  death?  I  have  said:  'Kings  never  will  invade  France.' 
I  was  wrong.  With  this  poetry  they  will  regain  it.  You  will  not  make  citizens 
with  Rene  and  citizenesses  with  Atala.  And  to  save  ourselves,  to  restore  us  to  the 
path  of  progress,  a  second  revolution  is  needed." 

"We  will  make  it;  we  shall  see  the  Republic  again  1"  cried  Carrel,  raising  his 
head  filled  with  enthusiasm. 

"Yes,  we  shall  have  the  'best  of  republics,'  "  said  La  Fayette,  diplomatically. 

"We  shall  have  the  citizen-king,"  insisted  the  little  Thiers,  with  his  owl's  head 
and  his  rattle  voice. 

"Yes,  yes,  the  golden  mean,"  added  Dupin. 

"  And  then  all  will  not  be  ended,"  said  Sismondi,  shaking  his  head.  "  The  Re- 
volution perhaps  will  go  farther  and  faster  than  they  would  like  to  have  it.  Let 
us  remember!  The  taking  of  the  Bastille  caused  the  taking  of  the  Tuileries.  The 
taking  of  the  Tuileries  will  cause  the  taking  of  the  Bank." 

At  this  word  Bank,  M.  Berville  stopped  laughing  and  teasing  his  cousin.  His 
interest,  in  the  absence  of  intellect,  comprehended  the  historian  Sismondi  and 
checked  the  sage. 

" Yes,  not  so  fast  and  no  extremes  1  Let  us  be  positive  1 "  said  he.  "  I  am  very 
willing  to  subscribe  to  the  « Constitutional,'  but  for  the  Constitution.  I  desire  the 
Charter,  but  not  the  Republic.  I  am  for  the  golden  mean,  as  M.  Dupin  says. 
Frankly,  I  do  not  like  priests  or  nobles,  as  my  cousin  well  knows;  but  I  like  demo- 
crats no  better.  I  say  more;  I  even  prefer  knights  to  citizens  and  'short-robes'  to 


The  basket.  35 

sans-culottes.     Anything  rather  than  demagogues  who  have  neither  house  nor  home 
nor  faith  nor  law  ".  .  . 

"Very  good,"  exclaimed  his  cousin,  laughing;  "soon  you  will  call  yourself  de 
Berville.  Bravo,  and  thank  you,  my  cousin,  for  thus  defending  religion  and 
royalty." 

"  They  are  necessary  for  the  People,"  said  Berville,  with  a  sagacious  air. 

"So,  then,"  replied  his  malicious  cousin,  "you  deny  the  nobility  from  pride." 

"As  you  desire  it  from  vanity.  Yes,  my  dear  vain  cousin,  no  more  nobles.  All 
Frenchmen  are  equal  before  the  law." 

"That  is  just  what  the  People  say  to  the  bourgeois." 

"  They  are  wrong." 

"And  you  right?" 

"  Undoubtedly  the  People  are  at  least  our  equals.  I  even  maintain  that  the  most 
insignificant  workman  who  calls  himself  a  slave  is  freer  and  happier  than  I ".  .  .  . 

"  Yes.     Les  gueux,  les  gueux  sont  des  gens  Jteurcux,"  hummed  Berauger. 

"Allowances,  fees,  wages,  salaries,  —  the  same  thing  under  different  names. 
Really  the  employee  has  neither  responsibility  nor  care  nor  supervision  nor  obliga- 
tions. I  am  not  his  master,  I  am  his  steward." 

The  young  Berville,  who  had  listened  to  all  this  long  conversation  without 
going  to  sleep,  thanks  to  the  nun's  wind  and  other  holy  bonbons  of  the  great  con- 
fectioner of  Rome,  at  this  point  addressed  an  indiscreet  question  to  his  father  be- 
tween two  mouthfuls  of  gingerbread-nuts : 

"Say,  then,  papa,  why  don't  you  become  a  workman?" 

The  guests  smiled. 

The  father,  nonplusssd,  evaded  the  question. 

"There,  Camille,  children  of  your  age  should  be  seen  and  not  heard.  Gentle- 
men, I  may  seem  paradoxical ;  but  really  I  declare  to  you  that  the  meanest  of  my 
employees  is  more  independent  than  I." 

"  Oh !  oh ! "  exclaimed  Carrel. 

"Take,  if  you  will,  the  lowest  of  all  my  collectors,  —  Didier,  for  instance.  I 
take  him  because  he  is  steady.  He  earns  eighty  cents  a  day,  and  for  doing  what, 
my  God?  He  goes,  he  comes,  he  receives,  and  he  carries.  A  terrier  would  do  as 
much.  His  life  is  assured,  and,  as  he  is  honest,  he  is  more  than  rich, — he  is 
happy." 

"Why  don't  you  change  places  with  him?"  asked  the  enfant  terrible.  "He 
would  ask  nothing  better." 

And  the  guests  shouted. 

The  father,  now  indignant,  was  about  to  resume  his  argument  after  an  angry 
gesture  at  the  child,  when  behind  a  valet  a  man  of  mature  age  entered  cautiously, 
and  with  an  air  of  embarrassment  and  anxiety  approached  the  banker's  chair. 

It  was  the  cashier  of  the  establishment. 


36  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  he,  in  a  hesitating  tone. 

And  in  a  low  voice  the  following  conversation  began. 

"What  do  you  want,  Bremont?"  said  Berville,  testily. 

"  To  speak  to  you  in  private." 

"You  know  very  well  that  I  do  not  wish  to  be  disturbed  when  I  am  at  the 
table." 

"  Excuse  me,  Monsieur,  but ".  .  . 

"And  how  happens  it  that  you  are  here  at  this  hour?    Why  come  back?" 

"I  have  not  come  back;  I  have  remained." 

"Why?" 

"  I  have  been  waiting  for  the  collector,  who  has  not  yet  returned." 

The  banker  leaped  from  his  seat. 

The  conversation  ceased,  and  all  eyes  were  fixed  on  Berville,  erect  and  petrified. 

The  sinister  finger  tracing  the  fatal  handwriting  on  the  wall  at  Belshazzar's 
feast  amid  the  noise  of  thunder  had  no  greater  effect  upon  the  king  of  Babylon 
than  the  words  of  the  cashier  produced  upon  the  banker  Berville. 

Presentiment,  that  shadow  of  misfortune,  which  precedes  it  instead  of  following 
it,  passed  over  the  moist  brow  of  the  financier,  who,  erect  as  a  statue  and  pale  as 
death,  left  the  diuing-hall  with  Bre*mont,  without  an  excuse  or  a  bow  to  any  one. 

The  guests,  who  had  seen  him  turn  pale,  watched  him  go  out,  some  with  sur- 
prise, others  with  suspicion,  his  rivals  with  joy,  no  one  with  pain.  And  then,  look- 
ing at  each  other  without  saying  a  word,  all  went  out  one  after  another,  leaving 
Mademoiselle  Gertrude,  threatened  with  celestial  wrath,  lone  and  dejected,  in  the 
middle  of  her  wasted  dessert  and  her  empty  dining-hall,  all  abandoning  the  house, 
as  rats  abandon  a  sinking  ship. 

As  for  the  Berry  banker,  the  miracle  which  changed  Nebuchadnezzar  into  a  wild 
beast  was  no  longer  necessary.  It  was  done. 


No  more  festivities.  All  is  silent,  dark  in  the  Berville  mansion,  except  in  the 
director's  office. 

The  banker  and  the  cashier,  anxious  and  mute,  are  shut  up  there. 

They  are  waiting. 

The  clock  strikes  one  in  the  morning. 

"  You  see,"  exclaimed  the  banker  in  a  tone  o  f  anguish,  "  my  ruin  is  complete. 
He  will  not  return." 

And  walking  up  and  down  the  room  in  agitation,  his  hands  clinched  bebind  his 
.back,  he  continued : 

"  How  imprudent  you  have  been,  Bremont  1  To  entrust  a  collector  with  such  a 
Bum  1  Three  hundred  thousand  dollars  1  It  is  enough  to  tempt  honesty  itself." 

The  cashier,  trembling,  tried  to  excuse  himself. 


The  Basket.  37 

"  But  Didier  really  is  honesty  itself.  During  the  fifteen  years  that  he  has  been 
in  your  service  he  has  not  deserved  a  reproach,  and  that  is  why  I  selected  him. 
Probity,  activity,  morality,  he  has  everything  in  his  favor,  everything ! " 

"  Even  my  collections ! "  exclaimed  the  banker,  ill  concealing  his  growing 
irritation. 

"I  acted  for  the  best.  And  what  should  I  have  done?"  observed  the  cashier. 
"I had  no  orders"  .... 

"  No  orders,  no  orders.  .  .  .  you  had  the  orders  of  good  sense ;  you  should  have 
taken  the  responsibility  of  sending  some  one  with  him." 

"That  is  what  I  did,  Monsieur;  Louis  Dupont  went  with  him,  and  I  wonder" 

"You  sent  some  one  with  him? All  is  explained  1  Shared  between 

them ! " 

"  But,  Monsieur,  I  scarcely  understand  you." 

"  I  understand  myself  only  too  well." 

"Their  route  was  a  long  one,  extending  outside  of  Paris,"  ventured M.  Brcmout. 
"Perhaps  they  could  not  find  a  carriage  to  bring  them  back." 

M.  Berville  stamped  his  foot. 

"  Say  rather  that  they  have  run  away  together  1 " 

"Jacques  and  Louis?"  replied  the  cashier.  "Impossible!  I  would  answer  for 
their  honesty  almost  as  quickly  as  for  my  own." 

"  Be  silent,"  cried  the  banker,  "  or  I  shall  believe  that  you  are  their  accomplice." 

The  cashier  started,  and,  in  a  voice  choking  with  indignation,  said : 

"II    Ohl    Monsieur!" 

The  master  perceived  that  he  had  gone  too  far,  and,  recovering  himself  immedi- 
ately, he  said  in  a  softened  tone  : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear  Brdmont.  My  head  is  no  longer  my  own ;  I  am 
carried  away  by  my  distress ;  this  blow  strikes  me  unexpectedly.  Come,  let  us  be 
cool,  let  us  reason.  At  what  hour  ought  they  to  have  returned,  allowing  for  all 
possible  and  even  impossible  delays?" 

"I  repeat  that  the  route  was  a  long  one,"  said  the  cashier,  scarcely  recovered 
from  his  emotion.  "  The  largest  sum  to  be  collected,  exceeding  all  the  others  com- 
bined, was  outside  the  city.  Bad  weather  and  mischance,  the  foreseen  and  the 
unforeseen,  would  very  likely  detain  them  till  ten  o'clock,  perhaps  till  eleven,  at 
the  latest  till  midnight." 

The  banker  pointed  to  the  clock,  which  indicated  half  past  one. 

The  cashier  made  no  answer  to  this  gesture,  more  eloquent  than  any  words. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  in  despair,  and  for  a  few  seconds  silence  pre- 
vailed, disturbed  only  by  the  ticking  of  the  clock,  whose  golden  hands  turned  as, 
inexorably  as  fate. 

The  half  hour  struck. 


38  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"Where  does  Didier  live?"  suddenly  asked  M.  Berville. 

"Rue  Sainte-Marguerite." 

"  What  street  is  that?    Is  it  far? " 

"Far  enough.    In  the  middle  of  the  Faubourg  Saint- Antoine." 

"  A  devil  of  a  distance  I     And  Dupont?  " 

"He  lives  near  here,  Passage"  .... 

The  banker  prevented  him  from  finishing. 

"  Run  and  find  him.     Quick  I  " 

M.  Bre"mont  went  ont  upon  this  errand. 

Left  alone,  M.  Berville  could  not  sit  still.  He  rose,  walked  back  and  forth,  then 
sat  down  again  only  to  rise  once  more,  impatient,  enervated,  exasperated,  tortured 
by  anxiety. 

"I  wish  to  know  where  I  stand ;  this  uncertainty  is  killing.  .  .  Over  a  quarter 
of  a  million,"  said  he  slowly,  folding  his  arms.  "  More  than  I  possess  I  Oh,  it  is 
horrible  1  This  Didier  is  surely  a  robber ;  but  he  cannot  be  alone ;  that  is  out  of 
the  question.  And  this  imbecile  of  a  Bremont  who  does  not  return  with  the  other ! 
Undoubtedly  all  three  have  an  understanding." 

He  listened  anxiously  to  the  street  sounds,  awaiting  the  cashier's  return. 

A  carriage,  arriving  at  full  speed,  stopped  in  front  of  the  house. 

A  minute  later  the  cashier  reentered  the  office,  accompanied  by  Dupont. 

"Where  is  Didier?    Whence  come  you?"  burst  out  M.  Berville. 

The  collector  stammered,  astonished  and  frightened  by  the  master's  question  and 
the  absence  of  Jacques. 

"  Didier  1  Whatl  He  has  not  returned?  I  left  him  at  ten  o'clock  at  the  Quai 
d'Austerlitz." 

The  banker  exploded. 

"Confounded  beast  I  ....  traitorl  .  .  .  wretch  1"  .... 

And  he  seized  his  employee  by  the  arm,  grasping  him  tightly  and  shaking  him. 

"  Why  did  you  leave  him?"  he  cried. 

"Monsieur,  the  collections  were  made.  .  .  .  the  day's  work  was  done I 

was  anxious.  .  .  .  My  wife  is  sick.  .  .  .  She  has  just  given  birth  to  a  child." 

"In  the  name  of  God,  what's  that  to  me?"  swore  the  banker,  pushing  Dupont 
away  in  a  mad  fit  of  anger.  "But  this  will  not  be  the  end  of  it.  I  will  have  you 
all  imprisoned." 

He  paced  the  room  for  a  moment  like  a  wild  beast  in  its  cage,  his  look  recalled 
to  the  clock  as  it  struck  two. 

"  Ah  1  you  strike  my  ruin,"  said  he.  "  To  have  worked  so  hard  to  establish  this 
house  .  .  .  destroyed  by  these  monsters  I  Robbed  1  Ruined !  A  den  of  thieves ! " 

Then,  seized  with  a  fit  of  madness,  he  leaped  at  the  clock. 

"  You  shall  strike  no  more,"  he  cried. 

And  he  dashed  it  upon  the  marble  hearth,  breaking  it  and  trampling  on  the 


The  Basket.  39 

pieces.     Then,  his  nerves  strained  almost  to  bursting,  he  vented  his  rage  upon  him- 
self, tearing  out  his  beard  and  lacerating  his  face. 

M.  Bre"rnont  and  Louis,  overwhelmed,  looked  on  in  fear  at  their  master's  despair. 

Finally  he  stopped,  with  foam  on  his  lips  and  his  eyes  starting  from  their 
sockets,  and  planted  himself  in  front  of  the  collector. 

"  Clear  out,  you  scoundrel !  I  dismiss  you.  .  .  Or  rather,  no,  I  keep  you.  You 
shall  be  imprisoned  in  La  Force,  there  to  await  the  other,  with  your  fellows, 
bandit  1 " 

And,  addressing  M.  Bremont,  he  added: 

"  An  officer !     Go  get  me  an  officer  I     Not  a  word.    It  is  my  will  1 " 

The  cashier  started  to  obey  this  peremptory  order. 

"No,  stay,  you  too!  "  exclaimed  the  banker,  stopping  him  at  the  door.  "You 
shall  not  go  out  either." 

And  he  began  to  scream  at  the  stairs,  calling  the  janitor. 

"Plumet!     Pluinet!     Bring  me  the  police.    Do  you  hear  me?" 

The  janitor,  waking  with  a  start,  hastily  dressed  himself  and  obeyed  passively, 
like  an  automaton,  without  knowing  why. 

Soon  an  officer  made  his  appearance. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  inquired. 

"Here  I  am,  surrounded  by  fools  and  knaves,  who  have  robbed  me  and  allowed 
me  to  be  robbed,"  cried  the  banker,  beside  himself. 

The  officer,  ever  ready,  went  straight  to  the  point,  and,  designating  the  cashier 
and  the  collector,  asked : 

"Which  is  to  be  arrested?" 

"  The  other  first ! "  exclaimed  the  banker. 

"The  other?"  echoed  the  officer,  with  a  look  of  surprise,  searching  the  room  with 
his  eyes. 

He  was  looking  for  the  third,  almost  suspecting  the  employer's  sanity. 

"Yes,"  explained  the  banker,  coming  back  to  his  senses,  "another:  Jacques  Di- 
dier,  who  has  not  returned  his  receipts.  It  must  be  ascertained  what  has  become 
of  him.  He  must  be  found  and  arrested." 

"Is  he  married?"  asked  the  officer. 

"  Undoubtedly." 

"  Indeed !     Where  does  he  live  ?  " 

"  Faubourg  Saint- Antoine." 

"Surely  he  must  have  first  gone  home.  We  must  start  at  once.  Perhaps  we 
shall  catch  the  bird  in  his  nest  before  he  flies  again.  The  paired  robber  always 
returns  to  his  home  to  carry  away  his  female." 

"You  think  so?"  exclaimed  the  banker.     "  Let  us  be  off." 

And,  taking  his  hat,  he  opened  the  door. 

Alarmed,  with  eyes  and  ears  wide  open,  two  human  forms  then  faced  him,  — his 
cousin  and  his  son. 


40  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"  What  are  you  doing  there?"  cried  the  banker. 

"Berville,  my  fortune  is  yours,"  said  Gertrude. 

"  Fool,  keep  your  pear  for  your  own  thirst." 

And  he  pushed  her  aside  brutally. 

"And  I  tell  you  that  Jacques  is  no  robber,"  exclaimed  the  enfant  terrible,  stop- 
ping his  father. 

But  the  crazed  banker  overturned  his  son  as  he  had  overturned  the  clock ;  and, 
at  the  risk  of  his  life  and  in  spite  of  his  weight,  he  cleared  the  stairs  four  at  a  time, 
followed  by  the  others.  ' 


The  Basket.  41 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  DIDIER  GARRET. 

A  moment  later  M.  Berville,  his  cashier,  the  collector,  and  the  police  officer,  were 
being  driven  rapidly  in  the  direetion  of  the  Faubourg  Saint- Antoine. 

On  the  way  the  four  men  could  not  exchange  a  word.  The  cab,  going  at  full 
speed,  made  a  deafening  noise. 

They  stopped  at  last  in  an  uninviting  street  before  a  sorry-looking  house. 

"  This  is  the  place,"  said  M.  Bremont,  opening  the  cab-door. 

M.  Berville  cast  an  indignant  glance  at  the  Rue  Sainte-Marguerite  and  the  en- 
trance of  the  house. 

"Why,  this  Didier  lives  in  a  hovel!"  he  exclaimed.  "And  you  knew  him, 
Bremont?"  • 

The  officer,  too,  made  a  significant  grimace. 

"Find  the  treasure  in  there!     We  are  foiled!" 

"But,"  observed  the  cashier,  "the  laboring  class  is  obliged  to  live  in  low  quar- 
ters ;  at  a  dollar  a  day  one  does  not  live  whera  he  likes,  but  where  he  can.  Pov- 
erty is  not  a  crime,  Monsieur." 

The  banker  made  no  answer. 

They  all  entered  a  dark  passage. 

Reaching  a  staircase  as  steep  as  a  ladder,  M.  Bre*mont  stopped  in  embarrassment. 

"I  do  not  know  the  floor,""he  said,  casting  his  eyes  about  for  the  janitor's  lodge. 

"The  top  story,  I  think,"  said  Dupont. 

"No  matter,  let  us  go  up  at  any  rate,"  said  the  officer. 

"  Yes,  and  without  delay,"  exclaimed  the  banker. 

A  door  opened  at  the  top  of  the  house,  and  a  light  appeared. 

At  the  same  time  a  woman's  voice  was  heard,  a  voice  of  gentleness  shaded  with 
anxiety. 

"Is  that  you,  Jacques?" 

The  officer  shook  his  head. 

"  Not  returned !  "  said  he,  simply. 

M.  Berville  stifled  a  cry  of  despair. 

Bremont  and  Dupont  looked  at  each  other  in  consternation. 

The  four  men  rapidly  ascended  the  stairs.  As  they  reached  the  last  step  of  the 
fifth  flight,  they  saw  the  wife  of  Jacques  Didier. 


42  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

The  attic  room  was  so  orderly  that  it  seemed  large  and  so  clean  that  it  seemed 
luminous ;  not  a  rag,  not  a  thread ;  not  a  straw  or  a  grain  of  dust ;  a  cleanliness, 
not  of  the  surface  only,  but  of  the  depths ;  the  nooks  and  corners  that  never  come 
into  the  middle  of  the  room  thoroughly  searched  with  the  duster:  the  brasses  worn 
with  rubbing  and  shining  as  if  new;  everything  in  place,  nothing  dragging; 
Jacques's  spare  pantaloons  and  shoes  drying  on  a  chair  before  a  remnant  of  fire ;  a 
table  set  for  two  persons,  perfect  in  its  neatness,  awaiting  the  ragout  stewing  on 
the  stove;  but  the  crown  and  centre  of  all  these  great  and  little  cares  was  a  pretty 
white  cradle  for  the  rosy-faced  baby. 

Ah  I  the  amount  of  courage  and  virtue  that  such  a  woman  as  Louise  Didier  ex- 
pends in  struggling  with  fortune  is  inexpressible  1 

Always  neatly  shod  and  wearing  on  her  head  a  linen  cap  that  added  to  her  thor- 
oughly feminine  look,  anxious  at  this  moment  and  more  than  anxious,  alarmed, 
Louise  lighted  a  second  candle,  the  first  having  burned  out;  she  was  starting  up 
her  fire  and  ironing  her  baby's  linen  to  distract  her  thoughts  while  waiting,  when 
she  heard  the  noise  on  the  stairs,  opened  her  door,  and  hailed  her  husband. 

She  seemed  about  thirty  years  old,  with  features  as  regular  as  her  life,  sur- 
rounded with  light  hair,  and  possessing  the  bloodless  and  touching  grace  of  the 
women  of  the  people  made  prematurely  pale  by  the  hard  labors  of  the  house  and 
shop  through  lack  of  air,  food,  and  clothing. 

Mme.  Didier  started  back  in  surprise  upon  the  entrance  of  the  four  men,  half  in 
fear,  half  in  shame,  scarcely  dressed  as  she  was  in  a  short  skirt  and  a  white  sack, 
half  open  to  nurse  her  child. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked,  seized  with  a  fearful  presentiment  and  mod- 
estly covering  her  bosom  in  presence  of  these  strangers. 

"Where  is  your  husband?"  asked  the  officer,  brutally. 

"  I  am  waiting  for  him.  He  has  not  yet  returned.  But  what  do  you  wish  of 
him,  gentlemen?" 

"I  wish  him  to  return  me  three  hundred  thousand  dollars,"  cried  the  banker, 
containing  himself  no  longer. 

"  Three  hundred  thousand  dollars  1 "  exclaimed  the  poor  woman,  clasping  her 
hands.  "What  would  he  do  with  such  a  sum,  great  God?  If  he  has  it,  he  will 
return  it  to  you,  you  may  be  sure.  Three  hundred  thousand  dollars  1 " 

The  officer  confronted  Mme.  Didier. 

"  Come,  no  nonsense  I "  said  he,  staring  at  her.  "You  know  what  the  trouble  is. 
Your  husband  has  stolen  I " 

" Stolen  1    My  husband!" 

"  Yes,  stolen  my  fortune  1 "  said  the  banker. 

"It  is  not  truel  You  lie!"  cried  the  young  woman,  straighteniag  up  like  a 
lioness  struck  with  a  lash. 

"  Wretched  woman  I  you  forget  to  whom  you  speak ! " 


The  Basket.  43 

"  And  how  about  you,  then  ?  " 

"  Alas  I  everything  accuses  him,"  said  the  cashier,  intervening. 

"But  I  tell  you  it  is  not  truel"  repeated  Mme.  Didier.  "Look,  hunt,  ransack 
everything;  here  is  our  furniture, — cupboard,  clothes-press,  commode,  everything 
that  closes"  .... 

And  she  threw  everything  wide  open. 

"  No  difficulty  in  finding  three  hundred  thousand  dollars  there.  Your  fortune  i» 
no  more  there  than  Jacques  is,"  she  continued. 

The  banker  and  the  officer  had  soon  examined  the  whole  room. 

"  No,  nobody  1 "  said  M.  Berville. 

"  Only  an  infant,"  said  the  officer,  in  turn. 

In  fact,  in  the  midst  of  this  household  of  workers,  clean  and  orderly,  they  had 
seen  the  muslin-covered  cradle  where  slept  a  new-born  babe,  the  jewel  of  these  poor 
people, — Marie. 

Disturbed  by  the  noise,  the  child  began  to  cry  desperately.  The  mother,  thus 
called  by  her  daughter,  took  her  in  her  arms  as  in  a  cradle  to  pacify  her. 

This  touching  picture  calmed  the  banker's  fury  for  a  moment. 

"Tell  me,  Madame,"  said  he,  almost  gently,  "does  your  husband  often  come 
home  late?" 

"No,  Monsieur,"  said  the  mother.  "That  is  why  I  am  anxious.  He  should 
have  been  here  at  eight  o'clock,  as  usual,  or  at  nine  at  the  latest.  See !  his  supper 
is  there  on  the  stove,  waiting  for  him." 

"Does  he  sometimes  play?" 

"With  what?" 

"  Does  he  go  to  the  wine-shop  ?  "  insisted  M.  Berville,  while  the  officer  still  rum- 
maged about  in  all  directions. 

"Never,"  protested  Mme.  Didier,  "and  I  do  not  know  what  this  means.  He, 
always  so  exact.  .  .  .  Ohl  my  God,  if  any  misfortune  has  befallen  himl  " 

"Pshaw!"  cried  the  banker,  with  an  air  of  importance  and  raising  his  voice 
again,  his  momentary  calmness  exhausted;  "it  is  my  money  that  misfortune  has 
befallen ! " 

In  the  meantime  doors  had  opened  on  the  landing,  and  the  neighbors  were  ap- 
proaching curiously. 

Mme.  Didier  turned  to  them,  quivering  with  indignation,  and  called  them  as  wit- 
nesses to  her  husband's  honor. 

"Come  in,  enter.  They  say  that  Jacques  is  a  robber,"  she  cried,  in  turn.  "Is 
that  possible,  tell  them?" 

All,  men  and  women,  shook  their  heads,  and  a  unanimous,  energetic  "No," 
almost  threatening  to  the  accusers,  answered  her  question. 

But  a  noise  from  the  street  came  up  the  stairs,  growing  louder  and  more  distisct. 

Some  of  the  neighbors  leaned  over  the  bannisters  and  jumped  back,  frightened. 


44  The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"It  is  he?"  asked  Mme.  Didier,  with  a  gleam  of  hope. 

There  was  no  answer. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  continued. 

"Nothing  good,"  murmured  a  member  of  the  group. 

She  rushed  to  the  stairs,  pressing  her  child  to  her  bosom. 

"Go  no  farther,  poor  lady!"  said  a  man  who  was  hurriedly  ascending. 

It  was  Jean. 

But,  borne  on  by  her  impulse,  the  unfortunate  woman -violently  pushed  him 
aside. 

Banker,  collector,  cashier,  and  officer  followed  her. 

Some  municipal  guards  appeared,  bearing  a  torch. 

"Arrested!  at  lastl  "  cried  the  banker,  deceived  by  appearances. 

But  suddenly  the  body  of  Jacques  Didier  came  into  view  upon  a  stretcher. 

"No!  dead!"  said  the  poor  woman,  with  a  terrible  cry. 

"Ruined!"  exclaimed  the  banker,  leaning  against  the  wall  to  keep  from  falling. 

"Murdered!  Murdered!"  repeated  the  widow,  throwing  herself  upon  the 
stretcher. 

"  Dishonored  1 "  he  responded. 

"  My  husband  1    My  baby  1 " 

"  Oh  1    My  God !    My  God !  restore  my  uncertainty ! " 

And  a  flood  of  blood  rushed  to  the  banker's  neck  and  head. 

"You  see  that  we  are  not  all  knaves  or  fools,"  said  Bremont,  gravely;  "you 
sought  a  robber  and  you  find  a  victim." 

The  banker  heard  no  more ;  his  apoplexy  stifled  him ;  and,  stammering  these 
incoherent  words :  "  Maturity,  end  of  the  month,  bankruptcy  I  "  he  sank  at  the  head 
of  the  stairs  like  an  ox  felled  by  a  club. 

The  widow,  raising  her  head,  saw  the  miserable  man  fallen  near  Jacques  at  her 
feet,  and  with  a  movement  of  sublime  compassion  she  exclaimed: 

"  Ah !  poor  Monsieur  1 " 

Then,  quickly  entering  her  room  again  and  depositing  her  baby  in  the  cradle, 
she  was  the  first  to  go  to  the  banker's  aid,  moistening  his  temples  with  salts  and 
water. 

"Ah  I  he  would  not  do  as  much,"  said  the  cashier,  deeply  moved  and  looking  at 
his  employer,  who  was  recovering  consciousness.  "A  strong-box  is  not  a  heart! " 

All  hastened  around  the  banker.  The  cashier  aided  the  guards  to  bear  him 
away. 

It  is  said  that  the  name  Calais  was  found  in  the  heart  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  The 
word  bankruptcy  would  have  been  found  in  that  of  the  banker. 

While  they  were  going  out,  the  widow  came  back  to  her  own  sorrow  and  her 
own  dead,  distracted  for  a  moment  by  that  feeling  so  keen  among  the  masses,— 
solidarity  in  misfortune. 


The  Basket.  45 

Kneeling  by  Jacques's  side,  she  felt  of  hi  m,  called  him,  kissed  him,  tried  to  re- 
store him  to  life,  to  impart  to  him  her  own. 

"  Ah  !  his  poor  blood  1     Dumb,  dull,  cold,  dead  1 " 

And,  despair  giving  her  tenfold  strength,  she  took  the  body  in  her  arms  and  laid 
it  on  the  conjugal  bed. 

Unperceived  by  her,  Jean  had  remained  a  witness  of  this  desolation.  At  all  risk 
he  had  rejoined  the  patrol  and  guided  it  to  Didier'a  address.  Agitated,  he  de- 
scended to  the  story  just  above  the  ground-floor,  where  the  janitor's  lodge  was 
located. 

"Have  you  anything  to  let  here?"  he  asked  the  janitor,  abruptly  ^ 

"Yes,  a  loft,"  answered  the  latter,  sleepily.     "But  why?" 

"Nothing.    I  simply  wanted  to  know.     I  will  come  back." 

And  he  descended,  or  rather  jumped  down,  the  rest  of  the  stairs,  wiping  two  big 
tears  from  his  beard  as  he  reached  the  street  and  saying: 

"  Really,  I  didn't  think  I  knew  how  to  weep.  Ah  1  yes,  I  will  come  back,  by 
tomorrow  at  the  latest." 


46  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  VIL 

AT  THE  PAWN-SHOP. 

The  next  day  the  entire  press  reported  the  double  tragedy  of  the  Berville  man- 
sion and  the  Didier  garret. 

The  authorities  were  congratulated  on  restoring  the  body  of  Jacques  to  his  widow, 
instead  of  sending  it  to  the  Morgue,  as  is  the  rule.  Right-thinking  journals,  well 
cared  for  out  of  the  secret  funds,  did  not  fail  to  affirm  that  it  was  a  great  consola- 
tion to  the  poor  woman  in  her  affliction  to  be  able  to  bury  her  husband  at  her  own 
expense. 

It  was  necessary,  then,  to  pay  for  burial  in  any  cemetery  save  that  of  the  crimi- 
nals, which  receives  its  bodies  from  the  Morgue  and  from  the  scaffold,  scoundrels 
and  outcasts,  murderers  and  suicides,  the  whole  offscouring  of  civilization,  no  less 
good  than  Providence,  that  other  Divine. 

An  immense  current  of  interested  sympathy  was  formed.  ...  for  whom?  For 
M.  Berville.  And  everybody  repeated  after  his  newspaper :  "  The  poor  man  1 "  As 
for  the  widow,  there  was  no  further  question  of  her ;  she  was  left  to  herself.  For 
she  had  no  stockholders,  no  person  interested  in  her  safety. 

What  is  the  ruin  of  a  woman  of  the  people?  That  of  a  banker  is  quite  another 
thing  I 

The  principal  creditors  and  stockholders  of  the  Berville  Bank  granted  a  renewal 
of  their  claims  for  a  fortnight,  thus  permitting  the  banker  to  double  the  cape  of 
maturity,  the  end  of  the  month.  This  mark  of  confidence  and  prudence  did  not  fill 
the  treasury ;  but  at  least  M.  Berville  had  a  breathing-spell  before  the  inevitable 
crash  that  awaited  him  on  the  fifteenth  of  the  month,  the  wealthy  classes'  day  of 
settlement  and  the  limit  of  the  conceded  delay. 

That  of  the  poor,  the  petty  rent-day,  as  it  is  scornfully  called  by  the  proprietors, 
was  near  at  hand  with  no  prospect  of  indulgence.  Consequently  the  pawn-shops 
were  never  empty.  The  central  office,  in  the  Rue  des  Blancs-Manteaux,  was 
crowded  from  morning  till  night.  The  entire  laboring  and  consequently  needy 
population  of  Paris  came  to  this  shrine  of  Saint  Necessity  to  pledge  their  poor 
offerings  at  the  headquarters  of  philanthropic  and  official  usury. 

A  woman  dressed  in  black  made  her  way  into  the  office  of  pledges  and 
redemptions. 


i  The,  Basket.  47 

Undecided  or  ashamed,  she  looked  on  for  a  mome  nt  at  the  continuous  and  varied 
procession,  by  turns  ludicrous  and  pitiful,  of  those  coming  and  going. 

She  did  not  notice  the  presence  of  a  man  in  a  blouse,  who  had  entered  behind 
her  and  was  sitting  in  concealment  on  a  bench  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  room. 

Summoning  all  her  courage,  she  finally  took  her  place  between  two  railings,  run- 
ning in  front  of  the  grated  windows. 

The  clerks,  bending  over  their  registers,  noted  the  pledges,  took  strict  account 
of  the  names,  addresses,  and  professions  of  the  borrowers  in  order  to  strip  thena  as 
much  as  possible,  delivered  them  their  pawn-tickets,  and  handed  them  cards  against 
which  the  cashier  paid  them  the  sums  loaned. 

The  attendant  went  back  and  forth,  taking- the  packages  and  carrying  them  into 
an  adjoining  room,  where  they  were  estimated  in  a  loud  voice. 

The  woman  dressed  in  black  was  the  last  of, a  line  of  thirty  persons,  arranged  in 
single  file  as  at  the  ticket-office  of  a  theatre,  all  having  packages  or  articles  in  their 
hands. 

A  girl  dressed  with  the  elegance  of  an  interloper,  with  a  fine  India  cashmere  on 
her  back  and  a  short  silk  mantle  under  her  arm,  then  entered  as  if  perfectly  at  home 
and  went  straight  to  the  window  without  heeding  the  procession. 

"  At  the  end  of  the  line  1 "  cried  the  crowd. 

Not  disconcerted,  the  beauty  slipped  a  coin  into  the  attendant's  hand  and 
advanced. 

"  At  the  end  of  the  line  I  at  the  end  of  the  line  I "  the  voices  repeated,  louder 
than  before. 

"  It  is  an  outrage  I "  exclaimed  a  Hercules  with  a  husky  voice. 

"  What  do  you  expect? "  answered  the  attendant ;  "  it  is  a  custom." 

She  was  already  at  the  window,  on  the  other  side  of  the  railing,  handing  in  her 
shawl. 

"  Ahl  this  has  been  here  before,"  said  the  clerk ,  not  examining  it  very  closely; 
"number  66,  ninety  dollars." 

"  I  need  a  hundred." 

"  Then  complete  your  security,  my  dear." 

She  took  off  her  lace  veil. 

"Ohl"  exclaimed  the  Hercules,  "it  is  Sophie." 

"My  daughter!  Sophie  1  Sophie  1"  cried  in  turn  a  woman  at  the  head  of  the 
line,  "give  me  a  dollar." 

"What  does  this  crazy  creature  mean?"  said  Sophie,  superbly. 

"All  right  1  One  hundred  dollars,"  said  the  clerk,  receiving  the  veil.  "Forty 
cents  to  be  deducted  for  the  wrapping." 

Sophie  threw  down  the  forty  cents,  received  the  hundred  dollars,  and,  putting  on 
her  mantle,  went  out,  as  proud  and  irresponsible  as  Queen  Victoria. 

"  Number  67.     Come,  be  quick,"  cried  the  clerk  from  bis  window,  the  space  in 
of  which  was  left  vacant  for  a  moment. 


48  The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 

And  the  denied  mother,  a  poor  madonna  with  a  poor  Jesus  clinging  to  her  neck, 
who,  either  from  shame  or  fear,  had  hesitated  a  moment  before  opening  her  bwidle, 
with  a  trembling  hand  laid  a  heap  of  rags  upon  the  counter  in  front  of  the  window. 

They  were  the  woman  and  the  innocent  who  had  presided  at  the  lottery  of  the 
basket  at  the  Hotel  d'ltalie. 

"We  cannot  lend  on  those,"  said  the  attendant,  pushing  back  the  needy  woman's 
collateral. 

"I  am  in  such  need,  good  people,"  she  murmured.  "Only  twenty  cents.  I  have 
nothing  but  these  things,  and  no  bread." 

"You  know  very  well  that  we  do  not  lend  less  than  sixty  cents,"  said  the  clerk 

"Monsieur!    I  beg  of  you,"  said  the  poor  woman. 

"This  is  not  the  charity  department;  go  to  the  board  of  public  relief." 

"  Come,  my  old  woman,  make  room  for  the  others ! "  said  the  attendant. 

The  unfortunate  creature  left  the  railing  and  went  away,  saying  in  an  undertone 
of  despair : 

"Nothing  left,  nothing  1     Ah  I  such  heartless  people  as  my  daughter  1" 

She  passed  by  the  woman  in  black ;  the  latter  stopped  her,  and,  quietly  slipping 
a  few  copper  coins  into  her  hand,  said,  in  a  voice  of  ineffable  sadness : 

"  For  the  little  one." 

"  Oh !  thank  you  I "  exclaimed  the  other.  "  God  bless  you  1  This  saves  us  ... 
till  tomorrow." 

And  she  passed  out,  pressing  her  baby,  who  also  uttered  his  moan  of  thanks, 
more  closely  than  ever  to  her  breast. 

"  Number  68,"  cried  the  clerk. 

A  drunken  and  dissolute  man,  another  acquaintance  of  the  Hotel  d'ltalie,  the 
Hercules  of  the  North,  asked  by  the  attendant  to  lay  down  his  collateral,  fumbled 
for  a  moment,  and  then,  with  herculean  wit,  said : 

"One  moment,  and  I  will  show  you,  governor.  ...  I  have  been  robbed 

One  would  say  that  '  my  aunt '  has  nephews  and  all  sorts  of  relatives.  What  a 
family  1  It  is  enough  to  stifle  one  1  It  makes  one  hot.  .  .  and  thirsty.  Ah  I  but 
don't  push  so  in  the  rear.  Say,  easy  there,  relatives  1 " 

"  Well  ?  "  said  the  attendant,  getting  impatient. 

"Yes,  well?  what  do  you  want,  young  fellow?" 

"  What  have  you  to  pawn  ?" 

"  Myself  1 "  answered  the  Hercules.  "  I  weigh  two  hundred  ....  not  easy  to 
support,  and  the  government  is  bound  to  restore  articles  in  good  condition  I " 

"  Will  you  clear  out  ?  "  said  the  attendant. 

And  he  gave  him  a  rude  shove. 

"Take  care  .  .  .  fragile  1  You  are  answerable  for  breakage.  I  come  to  put 
myself  in  gage,  I  tell  you." 

"  In  cage,  you  mean,"  said  the  clerk,  intervening. 


The  Basket.  49 

Then,  calling  the  officer  on  duty,  he  said : 

"  We  have  had  enough  of  this.     Officer,  take  Monsieur  into  the  jewelry  room." 

The  drunkard  tried  to  resist. 

"  I  tell  you  that  I  wish  to  be  hung  up" 

"  That's  what  we  are  going  to  do  with  you,"  retorted  the  clerk.     "  Next  1 " 

The  officer  led  away  the  obstinate  man,  who  still  went  on  jabbering : 

"  You  will  give  the  ticket  to  my  wife.  She  will  come  to  redeem  me,  —  the  tall 
beauty  who  just  went  out  without  her  cashmere.  She  loves  me  like  a  beast ;  conse- 
quently I  do  as  I  please.  When  one  is  a  fine  specimen  of  a  man,  he  ought  to  live 
on  his  physique,  eh  ?  " 

The  door  closed  upon  him. 

"  Number  69,  a  clock  ...  Ah !  we  are  deaf  with  them,  two  dollars,"  cried  the 
clerk ;  "  number  70,  a  set  of  teeth,  not  new,  sixty  cents." 

M.  Bre*mont,  M.  Berville's  cashier,  hesitating  and  mortified,  offered  a  set  of 
diamonds  which  had  belonged  to  Mme.  Berville. 

"  Number  71,  six  thousand  dollars." 

Then  came  the  turn  of  a  man  of  military  bearing. 

"  Number  72,  a  sword,  three  dollars.  No,  it  is  a  sword  of  honor,  with  the  name 
upon  it :  only  two  dollars  and  forty  cents." 

The  valuations  continued. 

A  gentleman,  decorated  and  serious  as  a  diplomat,  was  at  the  window. 

"  A  necklace  of  the  order  of  the  Golden  Fleece  ...  an  imitation.  Number  73, 
one  dollar." 

A  workingman,  in  the  prime  of  life,  handed  in  the  implements  of  his  toil,  saying 
in  a  discouraged  tone  : 

"  No  more  work.  .  .    No  need  of  tools ".  .  . 

"  Number  74,  a  hammer,  nippers,  etc.,  eighty  cents." 

"Not  a  dollar?" 

"No,  we  have  too  many  of  these  traps.    Eighty  cents.  .  .  will  you  take  it?" 

"  I  must." 

"  Twenty  cents  for  wrapping,  you  know  ?  " 

The  workingman  bit  his  moustache  and  grumbled  as  he  passed  to  the  cashier's 
office,  where  he  was  given  but  sixty  cents. 

A  freshly-shaven  individual,  looking  like  a  clergyman,  advanced  a  picture. 

"  Number  75,  a  Raphael,  '  The  Holy  Family,'  a  copy.  We  cannot  take  that. 
Ah  !  yes,  the  frame  is  copper ;  a  dollar  and  forty  cents." 

"  That  is  not  much  for  my  poor  little  ones,  Monsieur." 

"  Or  your  mistress,"  muttered  the  workingman  on  his  way  to  the  payment  office. 

And  he  added,  laughing : 

"  See,  the  Good  God  I  the  Good  God  also  pulls  the  devil  by  the  taij." 

A  musician  took  his  place  before  the  window, 


50  The,  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"  A  violin,"  said  he. 

"  Try  it,"  said  the  clerk. 

The  artist  began  to  play  the  "Marseillaise." 

"Stop,  or  I  arrest  youl"  exclaimed  the  officer,  just  then  coming  in  again. 

"All  right.    Number  76,  six  dollars,"  continued  the  appraiser. 

A  sculptor  passed  in  several  busts  under  the  head  of  objects  of  art. 

"Number  77,  Charles  X,  Napoleon  I,  and  Louis  XVIII.  Three  plasters,  not 
much  difference !  a  dollar,  forty  cents,  twenty  cents,  —  in  all,  a  dollar  and  sixty." 

The  Hercules  had  returned  behind  the  officer. 

"Louis  Eighteen,"  he  cried,  with  his  massive  wit,  "Louis  Eighteen  I  I  prefer 
eighteen  louis  1  Where  is  Sophie,  who  has  twenty-five?  I  must  have  her." 

Again  the  officer  put  him  out. 

"  Ah  1  Number  78,  a  silver  watch  with  its  chain,  and  a  second-hand  wedding- 
ring,  five  dollars." 

The  tired  clerk  raised  his  eyes  upon  the  person  offering  them. 

It  was  the  last  comer. 

"Your  name?" 

"  Madame  Didier." 

"Residence?" 

"  Rue  Sainte-Marguerite." 

"Business?" 

"  Seamstress." 

"Have  you  your  husband's  authorization?" 

"  I  am  a  widow,  Monsieur." 

"  Then  a  death  certificate  is  necessary ;  two  licensed  witnesses  must  answer  for 
you  and  sign  \ipon  this  register." 

"  Two  licensed  witnesses?  " 

"  Yes,  two  merchants  of  your  neighborhood." 

"  But  I  have  nobody,  Monsieur.  I  cannot  make  my  position  known  to  everybody. 
It  is  impossible."  . 

"I  am  very  sorry,  but  it  is  indispensable." 

"Then  give  me  back  my  things;  I  will  go  to  a  second-hand  dealer." 

"  No.    The  pledge  is  seized.    Here  is  a  receipt." 

"  Seized  I " 

"  Yes,  until  the  formalities  are  complied  with.  It  is  the  law  in  your  case.  For 
loans  of  more  than  three  dollars,  regular  papers  are  required  and  the  testimony  of 
two  honorable  persons." 

The  man  who  had  entered  after  Madame  Didier  and  remained  hidden  in  the 
corner,  rose  suddenly  and  spontaneously  offered  himself  at  the  window : 

"  Two  honorable  persons  ?    Here  is  one  at  any  rate  1 " 

"  You.  know  Ma4ajtne  ?  "  asked  the  qlerk,.  with  a  look  of  disdain. 


The  Basket.  61 

"  I  should  say  so ;  I  live  in  the  same  house." 

"Who  are  you?" 

"  Jean,  dealer  in  rags." 

"Wholesale?" 

"  Wholesale  and  retail." 

"  Let  us  see,  are  you  established  ?    Have  you  a  license  ?  " 

"  You  mean  a  basket  ?  " 

The  clerk  became  angry. 

"  Confounded  biffin,  away  with  you  1  Clear  out,  and  be  quick  about  it  I  Who 
ever  saw  you  ?  " 

Jean  did  his  best  to  restrain  himself. 

"  I  tell  you  that  I  am  the  witness  of  this  poor  lady ;  and,  since  you  will  not  lend 
to  her,  you  at  least  will  restore  her  property." 

"What?    You  are  doubtless  in  conspiracy".  .  . 

Madame  Didier  took  the  rag-picker  by  the  arm. 

"  Thank  you,  Monsieur  Jean,"  said  she,  alarmed.  "  Make  no  scene.  I  prefer  to 
abandon  these  articles.  Oh  1  these  wicked  men  1 " 

"The  regulations  apply  to  all,"  concluded  the  clerk.  "And  no  comments,  or 
else".  .  .  . 

And  he  pointed  to  the  officer,  who  stood  ready  to  intervene. 

"Miserable  quill-driver  1"  exclaimed  Jean,  grumbling,  swearing,  storming. 

Nevertheless  he  suffered  the  widow  to  lead  him  away. 

"Now,  there  you  are,  stripped,"  said  he,  on  reaching  the  street.  "  And  they  call 
that  the  Mount  of  Piety  1  I  was  not  acquainted  with  it,  but  I  shall  remember  it." 

The  widow  started  to  go,  after  a  final  expression  of  thanks. 

"No,"  exclaimed  Jean,  "this  must  not  be  left  so.  You  have  been  robbed  as  if 
this  were  the  forest  of  Bondy.  Mount  of  thieves,  away  with  you!  Oh  I  I 
wish".  .  .  . 

"I  pray  you,  for  pity's  sake,  do  not  make  my  pitiful  situation  public.  I  should 
die  of  shame  as  well  as  pain." 

"Well,"  answered  Jean,  "I  will  be  silent.  .  .  .  But  on  one  condition,  —  that 
you  permit  me  as  a  neighbor,  and  without  regarding  it  as  of  any  importance.  .  .  . 
Within  the  last  week  I  have  saved  a  dollar  ".  .  .  . 

"  Never !     Thank  you  again,  and  farewell,  Monsieur  Jean." 

"But  I  tell  you  that  it  is  'for  the  little  one,'  as  you  said  just  now  to  the  woman 
who  was  poorer  than  yourself." 

And  he  dropped  the  coin  into  the  widow's  pocket. 

"You  may  return  it  when  you  can  ;  it  is  you  who  oblige  me.  The  money  is  well 
placed.  Perhaps  I  should  drink  it  up.  It  is  agreed?  For  Marie!  Au  revoir, 
Madame  Didier." 

And  he  slipped  away  as  if  he  had  robbed  the  widow. 


52  The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 

Stop,  honest  Jean  ;  you  are  not  the  robber ;  the  robber  is  the  Mount  of  Piety  I 

The  poor  mother,  surprised  and  deeply  moved,  could  not  restrain  him  or  recall 
him  to  return  his  money. 

"Worthy  man!  when  I  canl  But  it  is  impossible.  He  does  not  know  my  situ- 
ation. Rent  tomorrow,  bread  today.  Ohl  it  is  all  overl  Poor  Marie,  in  losing 
your  father,  we  have  lost  all." 

And  with  lowered  head,  ashamed  of  this  forced  loan,  the  first  of  her  life,  she 
went  back  to  the  quarter  in  which  she  lived,  hurrying  away  as  fast  as  possible 
from  the  headquarters  of  usury  where  all  Paris  "  on  the  nail "  can  satisfy  both 
Heraclitus  and  Democritus,  giving  them  something  at  which  to  laugh.  .  .  and  to 
weep. 


The  Basket.  63 


CHAPTER  Vin. 

CANAILLE  &  CO. 

Everything  here  below  has  its  parasite :  wealth  has  flatterers ;  want,  usurers. 
Fortune  and  misfortune,  everything  is  exploited, — misfortune  especially! 

Widowed,  exhausted,  emaciated,  Louise  Didier  was  also  an  object  of  prey. 
What  was  she  to  do  ?  What  was  to  become  of  her  ?  Should  she  prostitute  herself 
or  kill  herself?  A  dilemma  without  a  difference. 

Crushed  by  her  condition  and  by  society  which  created  it,  she  bent  her  head, 
dwelling  in  despair  upon  her  famished  little  girl  and  upon  the  rent-day  which  was 
approaching  to  complete  their  ruin.  She  had  no  hope  left  save  in  death  for  both 
mother  and  child. 

But  on  reaching  the  Faubourg  Saint- Antoine,  an  idea  struck  her  as  her  eye  fell 
upon  a  three-story  house  which  bore  three  signs. 

The  first  and  most  complicated  was  phrased  in  the  following  obliging  terms : 

PROVIDENCE. 

Pawn-Tickets  Purchased,  Redeemable  on  Easy  Terms. 
Sales  on  Instalment. —  Very  Easy  Payments. 

The  second,  more  laconic  but  no  less  benevolent,  read  simply : 

SALVATION. 
Intelligence-Office  for  Women. 
And  finally  the  last,  thoroughly  Christian : 

THE  GUARDIAN  ANGEL. 
Mme.  Gavard,  First-Class  Midwife,  Holding  a  Diploma  from  the  Faculty. 

This  house,  with  its  three  signs  and  three  trades,  one  for  each  floor,  was  in- 
habited by  M.  Abraham  Gripon,  his  wife,  and  his  sister-in-law,  Mme.  Gavard. 

Gripon,  an  Israelite  of  low  Judaea  and  one  of  the  most  circumcised,  bought, 
sold,  loaned,  and  discounted  providentially  at  five  per  cent.,  not  per  week,  but 
per  hour. 

His  wife,  by  way  of  salvation,  kept  the  intelligence-office,  and  lodged,  fed,  and 
clothed  girls  coming  from  the  country  in  search  of  a  place  in  the  grace  of  God. 


64  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

This  industrious  and  well-matched  couple  had  given  birth  to  a  perfect  little  Jew, 
Istnae'l  Gripon,  no  less  an  enemy  of  pork  than  a  friend  of  gold,  who  already  filled 
his  family  with  the  finest  hopes. 

His  father  destined  him  for  high  Judaea,  for  the  lofty  career  of  a  stock-broker, 
with  the  upper  grade  of  thieves,  where  he  could  steal  with  more  freedom,  honor, 
and  profit  than  his  ancestors. 

Mme.  Gavard,  old  Gripon's  sister-in-law,  angelically  practised  abortion  and  even 
midwifery  at  accommodating  prices. 

In  the  neighborhood  the  three  signs  were  thought  to  contain  many  words  for  the 
expression  of  few  truths;  and  the  entire  holy  Gripon-Gavard  family  of  providen- 
tial money-lenders,  salvation-securing  employment  finders,  and  angel-making  abor- 
tionists, this  complete  Noah's  Ark,  had  been  popularly  baptized  under  this  typical 
firm  name :  Canaille  Sf  Co. 

Even  at  that  epoch  such  offices  as  these  were  the  cut-throats  and  cut-purses  of 
labor. 

The  widow  Didier  took  her  dollar  from  her  pocket  and  entered  the  den.  Going 
up  one  flight,  she  stopped  before  the  door  of  the  intelligence-office. 

She  rang  timidly.  An  old  woman  in  spectacles,  her  head  adorned  with  curl- 
papers, opened  the  door  and  scanned  her  with  a  sneaking  and  inquisitive  air. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked  her. 

"Work,"  answered  Mme.  Didier. 

Mme.  Gripon  pointed  her  sharp  nose  upward  and  scratched  her  ear  for  a  moment 
with  the  end  of  her  pencil,  asking  herself  undoubtedly  what  she  could  get  out  of 
this  woman  who  seemed  to  her  already  consumed  by  poverty  and  sorrow. 

"  Come  in,"  said  she,  finally. 

Louise  was  ushered  into  a  cold-looking  room,  f  urnishe  d  with  benches  upon  which 
were  sitting  seven  or  eight  women,  in  search,  like  herself,  of  a  social  position. 

"Wait,"  continued  the  old  fairy  of  salvation.    "You  will  take  your  turn." 

And  she  called  a  customer. 

Then,  making  a  sign  to  a  spirited,  shrewd,  and  buxom  young  woman,  she  re- 
tired into  a  little  closet  with  a  glass  door. 

"You  know,"  said  the  customer  whom  she  had  called,  speaking  volubly,  "I  do 
not  like  your  place.  An  old  bachelor  with  nothing  at  all ;  de  corated,  but  without 
four  cents  to  his  name;  an  old  soldier,  retired  on  a  pension,  who  pawned  his  sword 
yesterday  1 " 

"My  dear  friend,"  said  Madame  Gripon,  superbly,  "you  must  be  resigned  to 
service  in  the  army.  Your  early  education  was  too  much  neglected.  The  clergy, 
the  magistracy,  and  finance,  impossible  I " 

"Why?    Why?    Especially  as  I  must  have  what  I  want." 

"Hml  hml" 

"  And  I  tell  you  that  I  want  a  good  handsome  place  for  my  money ! " 


The  Basket.  55 

"Indeed!  "  said  the  employment-agent,  sharply,  showing  her  teeth  almost  to  the 
point  of  betraying  herself,  "do  you  think  that  I  am  going  to  give  you,  for  your 
paltry  two  dollars,  a  place  as  governess  at  the  Louvre  or  as  niece  to  a  priest?" 

"Then  how  much  do  you  want?" 

"  Well,  sign  a  couple  of  little  notes  for  me  ....  oh !  a  small  matter  ....  four 
dollars  each  ".  .  .  . 

"And  then?" 

"Why,  I  will  get  them  discounted  down  stairs,  at  M.  Gripon's;  but  take  care! 
with  him  there  is  no  trifling.  When  the  money  is  due,  it  must  be  paid.  On  these 
conditions  you  shall  have  the  place  that  you  desire.  Is  it  agreed?" 

"Yes." 

Mme.  Gripon  drew  up  the  papers,  had  them  signed  by  her  customer,  and  in  ex- 
change handed  her  an  address. 

"The  abbe  Ventron,"  read  the  stout  girl.  "Very  well!  That  suits  me;  au 
revoir  !  " 

The  agent  called  another  customer. 

"  So,"  said  she  to  the  new-comer,  "you  will  not  work  at  the  place  to  which  I  sent 
you?" 

"  Why,  Madame,  it  is  a  bad  place,  a  disreputable  house." 

"Well?    You  are  not  a  policeman,  I  suppose." 

"Never,  I  cannot"  .  .  . 

"Never!"  repeated  the  old  woman,  "we  shall  see.  What!  you  come  to  Paris 
without  a  cent!  I  give  you  board,  lodging,  and  washing,  in  short  I  support  you 
from  head  to  foot,  and  after  that  you  raise  objections ! " 

"  Madame  I " 

"There  is  no  Madame  about  it.  You  should  have  refused  in  the  first  place. 
There  is  a  prison  for  swindlers,  my  dear.  Choose." 

The  unfortunate  girl  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then,  overcome  by  fear  and  hun- 
ger, faltered: 

"  I  will  go." 

"  Next,"  cried  Mme.  Gripon. 

A  poor  girl,  far  advanced  in  pregnancy,  came  in  her  turn. 

"You  here  again!"  exclaimed  the  old  woman,  indignantly.  "And  in  the  same 
condition!  Incorrigible!" 

"  Oh !  if  you  knew ! "  said  the  poor  creature.  "  I  have  done  wrong,  it  is  true, 
but  the  son  of  my  employer  ".  .  .  . 

"Then  you  have  been  discharged?" 

"  My  God,  yes,  Madame." 

"  And  you  come  back  to  me !  Always  the  same  story.  Upon  my  word,  I  am 
your  milch  cow,"  screamed  the  old  woman,  striking  her  flabby  breast. 

She  continued  in  the  same  tone : 


56  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"  Well,  once  more  I  will  relieve  you  of  your  difficulty.  You  will  go  up  stairs  to 
Mine.  Gavard.  I  will  pay  your  board.  But  after  that  you  are  mine." 

"Oh  1    I  will  be  entirely,  eternally  grateful  to  you." 

"Pshaw!  that's  all  nonsense.  The  question  is  whether  you  will  be  submissive 
and  practical." 

"I  will  do  anything  you  want  me  to." 

"Good!  that's  the  right  sort  of  talk,  at  least.  Here  is  a  word  for  Mme.  Gavard. 
All  ready!" 

It  was  Louise  Didier's  turn. 

"  Tliis  is  the  first  time  that  you  have  been  here,  isn't  it?"  said  Mme.  Gripon ; 
"then  pay  me  sixty  cents  for  your  registration.  It  is  the  custom  of  the  house." 

Louise  handed  her  her  dollar,  which  the  old  woman  kept  in  her  hand. 

"What  do  you  want  to  do?"  finally  asked  the  latter. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  confessed  the  widow.  "  This  is  my  situation.  I  have  just  lost 
my  husband.  I  am  left  alone  with  my  little  girl,  and  I  am  a  seamstress  without 
work." 

"Ah  1  you  have  a  child,"  interrupted  the  agent.  "That  is  embarrassing.  Never 
mind,  go  on." 

"I  should  like  to  get  sewing  to  do  at  home.  It  is  impossible  to  find  any  imme- 
diately, and  I  cannot  wait.  So  I  should  have  to  work  at  a  shop.  But  there  is 
Marie." 

"  Yes,  the  little  nuisance." 

The  old  woman  gave  her  victim  a  piercing  look. 

"  It  is  not  at  all  easy  to  find  a  situation  for  you,"  said  she,  pocketing  the  coin. 

"I  could  be  a  housekeeper,"  ventured  Louise. 

"And  the  child?" 

"  I  could  put  her  in  charge  of  some  one  else  for  a  few  hours.  Undoubtedly  some 
neighbor  would  take  care  of  her." 

"  On  that  point  consult  Mme.  Gavard,  on  the  floor  above.  Perhaps  she  can  be 
useful  to  you.  She  is  a  sensible  and  obliging  woman  ".  .  . 

"The  midwife?" 

"Yes;  she  would  relieve  you  of  the  little  one.  Who  knows?  She  might  even 
make  it  an  object  for  you." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  that's  all  right;  she  will  explain  all  that  to  you  better  than  I  can.  Let  us 
talk  of  our  affairs.  I  will  give  you  an  address.  The  charge  is  forty  cents.  Does 
that  suit  you?" 

"Since  that  is  what  I  came  for.     What  is  it?  " 

The  agent  turned  over  the  leaves  of  a  thick,  greasy  book,  mumbling : 

"  I  hope  that  you  will  not  play  the  prude.  Money  has  no  odor.  I  am  going  to 
send  you  to  Mile.  Sophie,  a  ballet-dancer  or  something  of  that  sort.  You  were 


The  3askd.  57 

not  born  yesterday,  1  take  it.  ft  is  No.  24  Rue  Notre-Dame-de-Lorette  ....  and 
des  Lorettes,*  you  understand?  " 

Mme.  Didier  remembered  the  girl  with  the  cashmere,  and  revolted. 

"No,  Madame,  give  me  another  address." 

The  old  woman  was  nettled  at  this  refusal,  and  a  wicked  smile  crept  over  her 
lips. 

"As  you  please,  my  dear  lady.  You  talk  sensibly.  But  you  will  have  to  pay 
me,  not  forty  cents,  but  two  dollars.  Then  we  will  see  about  getting  you  a  place 
in  some  higher  sphere." 

"Two  dollars!"  exclaimed  the  widow,  in  the  same  tone  that  she  would  have 
said  two  hundred  dollars. 

The  agent  understood. 

"  That  ends  it,  then ;  good  day." 

"And  my  dollar?" 

"  Costs,  my  beauty.    Registration,  sixty  cents;  address,  forty  cents ;  total".  .  . 

"  It  is  a  robbery." 

"Ahl  do  not  repeat  that,  or  I  will  have  you  shut  up.  The  operation  is  legal, 
under  the  authorization  and  protection  of  the  police." 

Mme.  Didier,  in  consternation,  turned  her  back  to  quit  this  den  in  which  she 
left  Jean's  savings,  her  last  coin  and  her  last  resource. 

The  old  Gripon,  reconsidering,  recalled  her. 

"Listen,"  said  she.  "You  are  too  silly  altogether.  Do  people  return  money? 
'  What  is  good  to  take  is  good  to  keep,'  says  the  proverb.  Now  that  I  think  again, 
I  have  a  place  for  you.  A  marvel.  Rich  people  who  are  temporarily  diminishing 
their  retinue.  A  place  as  cook  or  head-servant ".  .  .  . 

The  widow  snapped  at  the  bait. 

"Alas!     I  have  nothing  left,"  said  she. 

"  Nothing  at  all  ?    Really  ?  " 

"Not  a  cent!" 

"Not  even  a  pawn-ticket?  My  husband  would  take  that  of  you.  You  could 
redeem  it  within  a  month.  Ten  per  cent,  interest,  or  a  little  more,  as  at  the  Mount 
of  Piety." 

"  I  have  this,"  said  Louise,  taking  out  her  certificate  of  seizure. 

"Oh!  bad!  very  bad!"  exclaimed  the  old  woman. 

And,  pretending  a  sudden  sympathy,  she  added: 

"But  never  mind,  I  will  take  it  of  you.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  am  interested  in 
you.  I  pressed  you  only  to  test  you.  We  will  get  back  your  articles.  We  are  li- 
censed; that  will  be  sufficient.  I  give  you,  or  rather  M.  Gripon  lends  you,  two 
dollars  on  this  paper.  There,  sign  that." 

*  Des  Lorettes,  of  the  Lorettes.  Lorette  is  a  term  applied  in  Paris  to  a  woman  of  pleasure  occupying 
a  position  between  the  grisette  and  the  kept  mistress.  Many  of  them  live  in  Rue  Notre-Dame-de- 
Lorette.  —  Translator. 


68  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

Louise  hesitiated,  and  then  signed. 

The  greedy  old  woman  took  two  dollars  from  her  cash-box  and  showed  them  to 
her. 

"I  keep  this  money  and  find  you  a  place ;  is  it  agreed?" 

"Thank  you.  But  when  and  how  shall  I  again  get  possession  of  these  articles, 
which  I  prize?" 

"Tomorrow,  if  you  like,  by  paying  two  dollars  and  ten  per  cent,  for  the  week. 
You  understand?" 

"  It  is  well.    And  the  place  ?  " 

"In  a  moment." 

And  the  agent,  adjusting  her  spectacles,  looked  at  her  attentirely. 

"  You  have  an  intelligent  air,"  she  said.    "  Wait." 

Then  she  turned  over  the  leaves  of  her  book  of  addresses,  and  her  eyes  rested  up- 
on three  lines  written  in  red  ink. 

"Let  me  read  once  more  this  police  note,"  said  the  agent,  aside. 

The  note  raad  as  follows : 

"Learn  from  the  servants  for  whom  you  ma.y  find  employment  there  all  that 
goes  on  in  this  house,  where  many  liberals  are  received." 

After  reading  this,  she  closed  her  book. 

"  Say,"  said  the  Gripon,  "you  will  come  to  see  me  often,  will  you  not?  We  shall 
soon  be  two  friends,  and  you  will  see  that  I  will  enable  you  to  earn  a  great  deal." 

And,  to  trap  her  more  surely,  she  added : 

"  Your  little  one  shall  lack  nothing." 

"  Ah  1  so  much  the  better,"  said  the  poor  mother. 

The  agent  imposed  silence  upon  her  with  a  gesture. 

"Here  is  the  address.  ...  A  godsend  I  .  .  .  Upon  my  word,  two  dollars  is 
nothing  for  it;  I  lose  by  the  transaction." 

Louise  was  all  ears. 

"Berville  mansion,  Rue  du  Louvre,"  read  the  Gripon. 

"Oh I  never,  not  there,"  cried  Louise  Didier,  in  a  tone  of  mingled  repugnance 
and  fright. 

"  Ah  1  but  this  is  too  much,"  exclaimed  the  Gripon,  rising  in  astonishment  and 
indignation. 

"  No,  not  there  1     I  do  not  want  that  place,"  repeated  the  widow,  energetically. 

"Not  there!"  cried  the  agent,  containing  herself  no  longer.  "Why,  you  con- 
founded ninny,  you  don't  know  what  I  offer  you.  It  is  more  than  silver,  it  is  in- 
gots of  gold.  You  would  be  in  the  service,  not  only  of  the  banker,  but  of  the 
police,  of  the  government.  Idiot,  there  is  a  fortune  to  be  shared." 

She  stopped,  choking  with  anger  and  already  regretting  having  said  too  much, 
and  then  continued : 

"You  will  die  of  hunger,  beggar,  you  and  your".  .  .  . 


The  Basket.  59 

teut  Louise,  without  hearing  more,  had  run  out  of  the  little  closet  into  the  hall 
and  thence  into  the  street,  away  from  the  Gripon-Gavard,  Jew  and  Christian  den, 
authorized  and  honored  by  the  State  and  stigmatized  by  the  People  in  three  words 
with  this  brand :  Canaille  Sf  Co. 


60  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


IK  PARADISE. 

The  furious  Gripon,  stammering  and  grimacing,  was  still  threatening  the  widow 
with  her  fist,  when  the  door  opened  again  before  a  woman  dressed  in  puce-colored 
silk,  a  white  apron,  and  a  lace  cap. 

In  this  frightful  three-story  house,  with  a  crime  for  every  story,  where  for  no 
other  cause  than  hunger  and  thirst  for  gold,  auri  sacra  fames,  without  preference 
of  faith  or  race,  circumcised  and  baptized,  saviour  of  the  damned  and  massacrer  of 
the  innocents,  with  leave  and  even  on  account  of  the  Rue  de  Jerusalem,  crime 
mounted,  grew,  and  increased,  spy,  robber,  and  assassin,  from  the  first  to  the  third, 
there,  we  have  said,  at  the  top,  at  the  very  summit  of  this  three-fold  commerce,  the 
midwife  was  proudly  located,  nearest  to  Heaven  for  which  she  labored  all  day 
long,  by  the  day  and  by  the  job,  at  home  and  in  the  city,  undertaking  at  a  fail- 
price  anything  that  had  to  do  with  her  profession. 

She  was  another  Gripon,  younger,  her  pupil,  a  second  edition,  augmented,  not 
corrected  but  aggravated,  Mme.  Gavard,  the  "  maker  of  angels,"  the  outfitter  of 
Paradise,  a  monster  prosperous,  perfect,  and  patented  1 

"  Well?"  said  she,  in  a  tone  of  interrogation  and  surprise.  "What  is  the  mat- 
ter with  you?" 

The  old  woman  was  choking. 

"What  is  it?"  again  asked  the  Gavard. 

"A  horror  ...  an  abomination.  .  .  Ah  I  my  poor  sister.  .  .  You  see.  .  .  it 
is  enough  to  disgust  one  with  the  profession." 

"So  serious  as  that? "  exclaimed  the  midwife. 

Mme.  Gripon,  calming  her  exasperation,  was  able  at  last  to  explain  her  profes- 
sional mortification. 

Raising  her  hands  toward  the  ceiling,  she  said : 

"Would  you  believe  that  I  have  just  pitched  a  goose  out  doors  ".  .  . 

"Without  plucking  it?"  said  the  midwife. 

"No,"  replied  the  other. 

"Oh!  that's  all  right,  then ;  I  w:is  going  to  say".  .  . 

The  employment  agent  continued,  hissing  like  a  viper  rather  than  speaking : 

"  A  sort  of  widow,  a  pauper  ....  more  stupid  than  her  hands  ....  agood-for- 


The  Basket.  61 

nothing  .  .  .  would  you  believe  it?  I  offered  her  a  place  at  the  Bervilles',  an  ad- 
dress recommended  by  the  prefect  of  police  ....  a  real  chopin,  and  we  were  to 
share".  .  . 

"  And  she  wants  the  whole  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no.    She  refuses." 

"  Ah  1    Madame  is  honest  1 " 

"Yes,  too  silly  to  accept,"  cried  the  Gripon,  with  redoubled  rage. 

"Pshaw!"  said  the  midwife,  trying  to  quiet  her  with  a  gesture.  "Imbeciles 
are  a  necessity;  without  them,  my  God,  how  should  we  live?" 

"  Yes,  but  there  is  no  need  of  too  many  of  them.  ...  To  be  imbecile  to  such  a 
degree  as  that!  She,  the  only  one  of  the  lot  whom  I  did  not  want  to  victimize. 
That  will  teach  me !  Fortunately  I  shall  get  her  watch  and  ring.  With  those  I 
shall  secure  my  revenge  1  She  will  find  herself  in  a  fine  fix.  I  shall  not  let  her 
off  for  less  than  ten  per  cent." 

"Ten?  That  is  the  usual  rate.  You  treat  her  as  a  friend,"  said  the  Gavard. 
"  But  let  us  leave  her  case  for  another  and  better  one,  that  of  the  girl  whom  you 
sent  up  to  me;  I  have  come  down  in  regard  to  her." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  had  forgotten  her." 

"What  are  we  to  make  out  of  her?" 

"  A  good  thing.  Listen.  Placed  with  bourgeois,  in  a  family  of  magistrates,  she 
is  with  child  by  the  son  of  the  house  ".  .  . 

"  And  we  could  threaten  them  with  a  great  scandal?" 

"Exactly." 

"You  believe  it  will  succeed?" 

"Why  not?  They  are  pious  and  rich.  They  will  be  frightened  and  will  shell 
out.  Be  easy,  I  know  these  people.  We  have  only  to  go  and  say  to  the  papa: 
'Monsieur,  your  young  man,  the  State's-attorney's  substitute,  is  going  on  at  a  great 
rate,  my  faith  1  But  for  us  you  would  be  the  subject  of  a  scandal  that  would  pull 
everything  down  about  your  ears.  Your  former  servant  is  with  us,  and  wishes  to 
give  publicity  to  the  story  with  which  you  are  familiar.  Enough  said.  Pay,  and 
the  mother  will  keep  quiet,  and  so  will  the  child.'  And  thereupon,  without  being 
seen  or  known,  we  pocket  the  money,  and  good  evening!" 

"Well,  well!"  observed  the  midwife,  "but  these  are  magistrates.  We  shall 
have  to  look  out  for  ourselves." 

"No  danger.  Are  we  going  to  send  in  our  cards?  We  are  not  such  geese. 
Just  have  your  boarder  write  a  word  that  will  be  understood,  and  we  will  start." 

"All  right,"  approved  the  Gavard.     "Who  risks  nothing".  .  . 

And  she  went  up  stairs  again. 

A  few  minutes  later  she  came  down,  holding  in  her  hand  a  sheet  of  paper 
covered  with  bad  writing. 

"There,  will  that  do?"  she  asked  her  sister. 


62  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

The  old  Gripon  read  attentively : 

I  declare  that  it  is  in  consequence  of  my  misconduct  with  a  valet  de  chambre  of  the  estab- 
lishment that  I  have  been  discharged  by  M.  Bardin.  My  pregnancy  is  this  servant's  doing. 
This  is  the  truth.  Anything  that  I  have  said  about  M.  Bardin  or  his  son  is  simply  falsehood 
and  calumny,  for  which  I  humbly  ask  pardon. 

"A  little  too  correct,  but  that's  nothing.  It  will  do  as  it  is,  and  we  shall  get 
fifty  dollars,  at  least." 

"No  more  than  that?"  said  Mme.  Gavard.    "We  shall  see." 

The  two  women  went  out  quickly. 

As  they  passed  by  Abraham  Gripon's  shop,  they  opened  the  door,  and  the  young 
woman  said  to  the  old  Jew,  with  a  wink : 

"  We  are  going  out  on  urgent  and  profitable  business.  A  first-class  case  of  con- 
finement. You  will  look  out  for  matters  up-stairs,  will  you  not?" 

"All  right,"  said  the  usurer,  "I  will  keep  the  house  with  Ismae'l.  The  child 
will  repeat  his  four  rules." 

"Two  and  two  make  five,"  cried  Ismae'l,  "and  two  from  four  leaves  three." 

And  the  family  burst  out  laughing. 

As  they  walked  along,  the  two  worn  en  began  to  talk  like  the  two  good  sisters 
that  they  were. 

"Let  us  agree  carefully  about  our  facts,"  said  the  Gavard,  lowering- her  voice. 
"Shall  we  send  the  child  to  the  Board  of  Public  Charities?  Or".  .  .  . 

"That  will  depend  upon  the  bourgeois.  We  will  give  them  to  understand  that 
foundlings  may  be  found  again,  while ".  .  .  . 

"Yes,  but  then  it  is  more  expensive." 

"Undoubtedly.  We  must  push  the  matter  to  the  extremity,"  insisted  the  Gri- 
pon. "And  with  the  Italian  whom  you  took  the  other  day".  .  .  . 

"I  have  a  market  for  my  products  ;  you  are  right.  Paolo  has  made  a  bad  stroke 
at  the  Hotel  d'ltalie.  I  have  confessed  him  a  little.  I  hold  him.  Each  day 
makes  its  'angel.'  Things  are  progressing  famously  now,  and  I  am  overrun  with 
business ;  frankly,  I  needed  somebody." 

"Then  it  is  agreed".  .  .  . 

"In  Paradise  1"  said  the  Gavard. 

"  Hush  1 "  whispered  the  employment  agent.     "  There  is  my  widow." 

Louise  Didier  was  in  front  of  them,  sinking  upon  a  step  under  her  load  of  sorrow, 
fatigue,  and  want,  reduced  to  the  last  extremity. 

The  Gripon  pointed  her  out  with  a  gesture  of  contempt. 

" It  is  good  enough  for  you,"  she  said.    "Die  or  begl " 

And  she  passed  by,  leading  the  midwife  after  her,  who  approved  her  words 
with  a  wicked  smile. 

"Beg,"  repeated  the  exhausted  widow,  when  the  two  knaves  had  passed. 
"  Truly,  I  cannot  die  here  and  leave  Marie  alone,  her  father  dead.  Oh,  bread  I 
bread  I  No  false  shame  I  That  would  be  pride.  Yes,  for  my  child." 


The  Basket.  63 

At  that  moment  a  fashionable  lady,  holding  a  schoolboy  by  the  hand,  approached. 

It  was  Mile.  Gertrude  de  Berville  and  the  young  Camille,  seeming  rather  to  be 
fleeing  from  this  populous  quarter  than  returning  home  after  the  performance  of 
some  good  deed. 

It  must  be  stated  here  that  Jean,  who  followed  the  widow  like  her  shadow, 
nevertheless  had  left  her  to  find  the  honest  Bre'mont  and  induce  him  to  help  the 
wife  and  child  of  the  deceased. 

"I  saw  that  you  were  afflicted  as  I  was  by  the  death  of  Jacques,"  he  had  said  to 
the  cashier,  "and  I  come  to  ask  your  aid  for  his  poor  family.  It  is  very  annoy- 
ing to  me  to  beg,  seeing  that  it  is  not  my  trade,  but  I  can  do  notking  myself,  and 
it  is  useless  to  attempt  the  impossible." 

Bre'mont,  pressing  his  hand,  dismissed  him  and  went  at  once  to  recommend  the 
Didiers  to  Gertrude. 

Thus  it  was  that  the  pious  old  maid  and  the  hearty  child  found  themselves  to- 
gether at  this  hour  in  the  Faubourg  Saint-Antoine. 

"  Oh  1 "  said  Gertrude  to  Camille,  "  I  begin  to  regret  my  carriage.  The  idea  of 
going  to  such  a  place  on  foot !  But  then,  we  owed  a  visit  to  the  widow  of  this 
poor  Didier.  She  is  not  at  home.  So  much  the  worse ;  our  duty  is  done." 

"But  suppose  she  is  in  want?"  said  the  child. 

"  We  have  left  her  our  address.  She  will  know  very  well  how  to  find  us,  never 
fear!" 

Louise  Didier  had  heard  nothing  of  this  rapid  conversation.  Not  knowing 
Gertrude  and  unknown  to  her,  urged  by  hunger,  making  up  her  mind  and  lower- 
ing her  head,  she  advanced  in  a  supplicating  attitude  with  outstretched  hand,  and 
said  in  a  low  voice : 

"Pity,  Madame  ...  if  you".  .  .  and  her  voice  stopped,  her  hand  fell,  and  her 
tears  began  to  flow.  "  I  never  can,"  she  said. 

Gertrude  drew  back  as  if  frightened. 

The  child,  affected,  was  already  hunting  in  his  purse  for  money. 

Mile.  Gertrude  saw  his  movement,  and  stopped  him. 

"No,  Camille,  we  must  not  encourage  begging  on  the  public  streets;  it  favors 
vice  or  laziness.  Be  generous  only  where  you  know  the  circumstances,  my  child ; 
there  lies  the  merit  of  generosity.  Let  us  give  only  to  the  good  poor  of  our  friend 
the  abbe  Ventron ".  .  .  . 

The  old  maid  had  very  hurriedly  expressed  her  doctrine  of  formal  charity,  doubl- 
ing her  pace  to  get  rid  of  the  very  sight  of  the  poor  woman. 

Surprised  at  not  being  pursued  and  annoyed,  she  looked  back  and  saw  the 
wretched  woman  sinking  back  upon  the  stone,  overcome  by  shame  and  despair. 

Retracing  her  steps,  though  not  her  doctrine,  and  without  contradicting  herself 
by  the  gift  of  an  obolus,  she  nevertheless  had  a  Pharisaical  word  for  the  satisfac- 
tion of  her  conscience, 


64  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"  If  you  are  in  need,  why  do  you  not  apply  to  your  parish-church  or  to  the 
Board  of  Public  Charities?" 

Aud,  believing  herself  acquitted  of  responsibility  by  this  good  advice,  she  passed 
on,  leading  Camille  after  her. 

Unconvinced  and  mutinous,  remembering  the  bread  tickets,  the  child  repeated : 

"Poor  woman!     Oh  I   it  is  not  good,  Gertrude;   no,  it  is  not  good.     Mother 
would  have  given  her  something." 

And  he  threw   back,  toward  Louise,  hia  little  purse,  which  a  professional 
picked  up. 


The  Basket.  65 


CHAPTER  X. 

AT  THE  PARISH-CHURCH. 

The  widow  had  doubtless  shed  all  the  tears  in  her  body,  for  she  wept  no  more. 

She  gave  a  dry  cough,  a  long  shiver,  and  a  sigh. 

"These  rich  people,"  said  she,  "they  do  not  know  1  Oh !  how  hungry  I  am.  .  . 
and  cold  1 " 

Not  a  cry  of  revolt,  not  a  word  of  hatred. 

Before  begging,  she  had  tried  to  borrow  at  usury,  but  in  vain ;  then  she  thought 
of  getting  a  loan  as  a  favor,  but  she  did  not  know  Dupont's  address,  and,  as  for 
the  baker,  she  was  already  in  his  debt.  She  was  in  a  corner. 

"  To  die  or  to  beg,"  she  continued.  "  To  die !  to  rejoin  my  poor  Jacques,  that 
would  be  so  good.  But  no.  What  would  become  of  Marie?  I  cannot  take  her 
with  us  into  the  grave.  I  have  no  right  to  do  so.  Well!  to  beg?  Yes,  but  no 
longer  in  the  street.  The  parish-church,  the  Board  of  Public  Charities  ....  the 
lady  is  right;  that  is  less  distressing.  Come,  courage!  to  suffer,  always  to  suffer, 
but  bravely,  such  is  my  life  henceforth." 

Feverish,  with  death  in  her  heart,  determined  however  upon  all  sacrifices,  not 
for  herself,  but  for  the  fruit  of  her  love,  the  noble  woman  resumed  her  painful 
journey  from  one  station  to  another. 

She  was  in  front  of  St.  Paul's  Church ;  she  crossed  the  threshold  and  made  her 
way  into  the  nave. 

They  were  saying  mass. 

A  Swiss,  a  burlesque  remnant  of  the  temporal  power,  all  covered  with  velvet  and 
gold,  carrying  a  cane,  sword,  and  halberd,  a  soldier  of  the  good  God  of  armies, 
proud  of  his  position  and  consequently  haughty,  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
widow. 

She  advanced  toward  him,  and,  with  an  effort  to  put  firmness  into  her  voice, 
said: 

"I  should  like  to  speak  to  Monsieur  the  priest." 

"  To  Monsieur  the  priest,"  repeated  the  Swiss,  astonished  at  the  enormity  of  the 
request. 

"  Or  to  a  vicar,"  continued  Louise,  seeing  her  mistake. 
mass?" 


66  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"No;  for  help." 

The  Swiss  turned  upon  his  heels. 

"Speak  to  the  beadle,"  said  he,  with  a  disdain  that  bordered  on  disgust. 

The  widow  obeyed,  and  was  sent  by  the  beadle  to  the  sexton,  who  sent  her  fly- 
ing to  the  church-warden,  very  busily  engaged  just  then  in  twirling  his  silver  chain 
with  his  fingers. 

"Monsieur".  .  .  . 

•"Well?"  exclaimed  the  sexton's  subordinate,  without  raising  his  eyes. 

"  To  whom  should  I  apply  to  solicit  ".  .  .  . 

"Tome,  first." 

"  My  husband  has  been  killed  ...  I  have  a  little  girl  ...  no  work  .  .  .  rent- 
day  is  at  hand  ".  .  .  . 

"  Have  you  your  last  year's  certificates  of  confession  ?  Monseigneur  Quelen's 
charge  requires  one  every  month." 

"  I  received  the  sacrament  only  at  Easter,"  ventured  Louise  Didier,  "  and  ".  .  .  . 

"  At  Easter  1    Well  1  you  shall  have  your  help  at  Trinity." 

"But  I  follow  my  religion  strictly,"  insisted  Louise.  "My  daughter  is 
baptized." 

"  The  only  point  left  for  you  to  fail  in,"  exclaimed  the  beadle,  with  horror. 

"  In  future  .  .  .  since  it  is  necessary ".  .  .  . 

"Pshaw I  pshaw  1  we  have  our  poor  who  come  to  mass  every  morning,  confess 
every  week,  and  receive  the  sacrament  once  a  month  at  least." 

"But,  Monsieur,  generally  I  am  at  work." 

"  Work,  then,  and  leave  the  aid  for  the  faithful  who  do  not  work.  Moreover, 
you  have  only  to  write  to  Monsieur  the  priest;  he  will  answer  you." 

And  the  church  rat,  satisfied  at  having  staved  off  an  applicant  in  accordance 
with  his  instructions,  resumed  his  interrupted  occupation,  twirling  his  chain  with 
an  increasing  interest. 

The  widow  went  out  of  this  other  den,  not  of  Jews,  but  of  Christians,  where  the 
Catholic,  apostolic,  and  Roman  Gripons  rarely  lend,  always  take,  and  never  restore 
money. 

As  she  reached  the  portal,  she  met  the  Swiss,  striking  the  flagging  with  his 
heavy  gold-headed  cane,  before  Monsieur  the  priest  who  was  collecting:  For  the 
poor  of  the  parish,  with  a  very  pronounced  and  very  conclusive  If  you  please. 


The  Basket.  67 


CHAPTER  XI. 


AT  THE  BOARD  OF  PUBLIC  CHARITIES. 

Determined  to  struggle  against  fate  to  the  end,  the  widow  started  for  the  de- 
partment of  Public  Charities,  the  last  station  of  her  cross. 

Private  and  religious  charity  was  refused  to  her;  Louise  was  about  to  have  re- 
course to  public  charity,  to  civil  beneficence,  to  social  and  official  aid,  hoping  to 
finish  there  her  Golgotha  of  pain  and  shame. 

She  inquired  the  way  to  the  Charity  Office,  reached  there,  and  was  at  last  ad- 
mitted into  a  waiting-room,  a  Calvary  full  of  the  scum  of  civilization,  of  a  detritus 
of  both  sexes  or  rather  of  no  sex,  of  shabby  and  decrepit  old  people,  so  old  that 
death  seemed  to  have  forgotten  them,  so  ugly  that  they  seemed  to  have  frightened 
death  away. 

There  Madame  Didier  again  had  to  wait  her  turn  amid  this  needy  crowd,  which, 
by  no  means  disposed  to  share  and  embittered  by  fear  of  want,  already  repulsed 
her  with  eyes,  gesture,  and  voice,  as  a  competitor,  an  enemy,  coming  to  cut  down 
the  shares  of  the  habitues. 

"  She  is  not  a  mendigotte,"  the  word  was  passed  round. 

An  attendant,  a  good  fellow  like  his  chief,  whose  duty  it  was  to  keep  order  in 
the  room,  noticed  the  widow  as  she  advanced,  trembling  and  with  lowered  head. 

"  A  new  one  I "  said  he,  "  and  timid.  .  .  Come  with  me.  Silence  in  the  crowd, 
do  you  hear,  subscribers?  Otherwise  your  incomes  will  be  cut  off." 

The  threat  had  its  effect.  Needy  and  lazy,  parasites  and  pariahs,  beggars  pro. 
fessional  and  beggars  occasional,  all  became  quiet.  The  recriminations  died  out 
in  a  sullen  growl. 

Louise  Didier  followed  her  escort  toward  an  office  situated  at  the  end  of  a 
gallery. 

There  she  found  herself  before  a  stout  gentleman  seated  at  a  double  desk.     Op 
posite  him  was  a  young  secretary,  with  pen  raised  and  eye  attentive,  ready  to  write 
at  his  chief's  dictation. 

The  poor  woman  could  not  have  felt  a  more  poignant  emotion  in  presence  of  an 
examining  magistrate. 

She  lifted  her  eyes  humbly  upon  the  man  who  was  about  to  decide  her  fate. 

The  kind  face  of  the  chief  inspired  her  with  confidence. 

"Monsieur,"  said  she,  "I  come  to  you  in  despair".  .  .  . 

And  in  one  outburst  of  frankness  she  told  the  story  of  her  misfortune,  omitting 


68  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

no  detail,  insisting  on  her  child  who  was  "dying  by  a  slow  fire,"  to  use  the  popular 
expression.  She  finished  by  soliciting  immediate  aid. 

The  chief  of  the  department  had  listened  with  a  certain  benevolence. 

"Undoubtedly.  .  .  I  do  not  say  no.  .  .  Didier?  ...  To  be  sure.  ...  I  read 
of  the  crime  in  the  newspapers.  But,  by  the  way,  why  do  you  not  apply  to  your 
husband's  employer  .  .  .  M.  Berville,  I  believe?" 

Mme.  Didier  shook  her  head  without  replying. 

"Nothing  to  be  done  in  that  direction?"  said  the  chief  of  the  department. 
"  Ah !  that  astonishes  me.  Died  in  their  service ! " 

The  distressed  widow  cut  short  these  reflections. 

"  I  have  neither  the  power  nor  the  desire  to  apply  elsewhere  than  to  the  Board 
of  Public  Charities.  I  am  unfortunate.  Is  not  that  enough,  Monsieur?" 

"  In  principle,  yes.  In  practice,  no.  We  have  to  deal  every  day  with  indivi- 
duals—  I  do  not  refer  to  you — who  positively  live  on  public  charity.  With  them 
it  is  a  real  profession,  and  a  lucrative  one,  I  assure  you.  I  know  some  who  regu- 
larly collect  their  revenues  from  the  parish-church,  from  the  Department  of  Char- 
ity, from  a  hundred  benevolent  persons,  here  and  everywhere.  We  are  duped 
every  minute  by  idlers  who  know  all  the  tricks  of  beggary  and  get  a  better  living 
at  it  than  any  workingman.  Under  these  circumstances  we  are  forced  to  be  ex- 
tremely distrustful  and  circumspect.  Generally  the  really  needy  do  not  ask ;  the 
genuinely  poor  are  proud." 

"I  have  a  child,"  replied  Louise  Didier,  wounded  by  these  observations.  "It  is 
for  her,  not  for  myself,  that  I  ...  beg ! " 

"  Well,  it  is  your  right.  I  wanted  to  make  you  understand  that  you  ask  an  im- 
possible thing.  Immediate  aid !  But  you  must  remember  that,  even  with  excep- 
tional celerity,  it  takes  at  least  a  week  to  go  through  all  the  formalities  required 
in  such  a  case." 

"What  formalities?" 

"You  do  not  know,  then,  that  we  shall  have  to  write  to  the  mayor  of  the  place 
where  you  were  born,  and  then  make  inquiries  at  your  residence?" 

"Why?" 

"We  shall  go  to  M.  Berville's  house  and  yours.  Your  neighbors,  and  especially 
your  janitor,  will  be  questioned  in  regard  to  you." 

"But,  Monsieur,  I  shall  no  longer  be  able  to  take  a  step  in  the  neighborhood." 

"  Ah !  my  lady,  we  can  have  nothing  without  pain.  You  will  have  to  make  up 
your  mind." 

"  And  how  much  shall  I  obtain  by  means  of  this  humiliation  ?  " 

"About  two  dollars  a  month,  or  even  two  and  a  half.  Sometimes  we  give  as 
high  aa  three,  where  there  is  great  poverty  and  a  large  family." 

"  Ten  cents  a  day.    Well,  that  would  help  me  1 " 

"You  consent!    Do  not  forget  that  you  will  be  under  our  supervision;  we  are 


The  Basket.  69 

obliged  to  have  a  special  police  by  way  of  precaution.  You  will  have  to  call  here 
at  regular  intervals." 

"My  God  1  my  God!" 

"  Let  us  see,  where  were  you  born?" 

"Near  Epinal,  Monsieur,  at"  ... 

"In  Vosges!  You  should  have  told  roe  that  at  the  start.  That  department  has 
no  treaty  with  the  Paris  Board  of  Public  Charities.  They  would  not  repay  us, 
and  therefore"  .... 

"Therefore?" 

"We  can  do  nothing  for  you;  beyond  giving  you  a  few  bread-tickets  perhaps." 

"  Thank  you,  Monsieur." 

"  Unless  you  wish  to  return  to  your  native  place  by  stages." 

"Yes,  Monsieur,"  she  said,  with  proud  irony,  "thank  you  for  your  information; 
I  am  in  a  hurry  to  return,  and  am  going  to  take  the  post.  ...  for  I  am  hungry 
....  a  glass  of  water  for  mer  "... 

She  did  not  finish,  but  fainted. 

The  attendant  gave  her  the  glass  of  water  of  the  Gospel. 

The  widow  recovered  her  senses  and  went  out,  bowing  to  the  astonished  chief 
of  the  department. 

Then,  again  escorted  by  the  attendant,  she  passed  a  second  time  through  the 
waiting-room. 

The  beggars,  male  and  female,  divined  her  failure  in  the  confusion  which  cov- 
ered her,  face. 

Exclamations  of  spite  and  satisfaction  were  exchanged. 

"The  blonde  is  upset!  " 

"  The  young  woman  got  left ! " 

"  The  beauty  is  done  for ! " 

The  attendant  had  pity  on  her,  and  as  she  disappeared  in  the  stairway,  he  re- 
called her  and  said : 

"  Stay,  go  mingle  with  the  crowd  there.  Talk  with  them,  and  you  will  find  out 
where  soup,  linen,  and  even  pennies  are  dis  tributed,  morning  and  evening,  at  the 
houses  of  the  '  good  heads,'  as  they  call  them." 

Then,  looking  at  her  with  a  complacency  and  an  absence  of  moral  sense  peculiar 
to  his  philanthropic  business,  he  added : 

"  But  no.  .  .  .  listen  a  moment.  You  are  not  smart.  To  beg  here  is  to  waste 
your  time,  as  pretty  as  you  are." 

The  widow  went  away,  bedaubed  with  this  last  insult.  A  handful  of  mud  after 
the  thrust  of  a  knife. 


70  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

Thus  religious  and  civil  aid,  the  assistance  of  Church  and  of  State,  of  God  and 
of  man,  one  of  the  two  (which  of  the  two  ?)  made  in  the  image  of  the  other,  the  en- 
tire official  and  officious  almsgiving  machinery,  failed  a  woman  in  the  most  sociable 
of  societies. 

Behind  the  dirty  cart  of  a  dirty  knacker,  drawn  by  a  dirty  horse  and  loaded 
with  a  dead  jade,  its  four  feet  in  the  air  and  its  neck  hanging  and  bleeding,  follow 
a  file  of  beasts  old  and  valueless,  utterly  worn  out,  with  nothing  but  skin  on  their 
bones,  walking  carcasses,  some  lame  in  the  left  foot,  others  in  the  right  foot,  some 
even  in  both  feet.  They  walk  or  rather  are  dragged  to  the  slaughter-house, 
whipped  toward  death,  unconscious  and  docile  beasts,  who,  serving  man  all  their 
lives,  now  go  to  receive  the  finishing  stroke  and  furnish  after  their  death  the 
leather  with  which  to  bridle  and  lash  their  fellows. 

Sad  emblem  of  the  poor  man  who,  in  spite  of  the  right  professed  by  modern  so- 
ciety, gives  all  his  life  to  clothe,  feed,  and  defend  the  rich  man,  and,  dead,  gives 
also  to  science  even  his  body  to  cure  him. 

In  the  bosom  of  the  Tiber  of  ancient  Rome,  on  a  deserted  island,  the  pagan 
slaughter-house  guarded  by  Caesar's  soldiers,  they  landed  the  old  and  useless  slaves, 
there  to  die  of  hunger;  but  at  least  after  having  sufficiently  fed  them,  as  horses 
are  fed,  during  their  lives  "of  service,  and  without  subjecting  them,  as  the  modern 
slave  is  subjected,  to  the  torture  of  Tantalus,  starvation  in  the  midst  of  abundance, 
hunger  at  the  doors  of  Paris  restaurants. 

Animals,  you  have  no  reason  to  envy  the  "king  of  creation";  slaves  of  Rome, 
you  were  tortured  less  than  the  "sovereign  people"  of  France! 

Even  in  Rome,  when  Paganism  was  at  its  height,  death  was  only  for  invalid  old 
age.  lu  Paris  as  in  Pekin,  amid  European  civilization  as  amid  Asiatic  barbarism, 
death  even  for  children ! 


The  Basket.  71 


CHAPTER  XII. 

AT  AUCTION. 

Jean,  who  was  neither  a  deputy,  nor  a  peer,  nor  a  judge,  nor  a  priest,  and  as  lit- 
tle of  a  deist  as  a  royalist,  had  kept  his  oath,  faithful  to  his  conscience,  to  the  pro- 
mise which  he  had  given  himself  over  the  body  of  Jacques. 

He  drank  no  more,  ate  little,  slept  still  less,  and  worked  a  great  deal,  watching 
incessantly  over  Didier's  wife  and  child. 

"  I  will  do  what  I  can  to  aid  them,"  he  had  said  to  the  dying  collector. 

But  what  can  a  rag-picker  do  for  others?  Scarcely  can  he  do  anything  for  him- 
self! 

He  did  more  than  he  could.  Every  night  a  double  basket,  beginning  early,  fin- 
ishing late,  leaving  his  hole  before  twilight,  returning  to  it  after  daybreak,  tho 
first  and  the  last  of  the  night-walkers.  He  went  to  the  muck-heap  with  the  same 
ardor  with  which  he  formerly  went  to  the  wine-shop. 

Hence,  on  the  night  preceding  the  third  day  after  the  murder  of  Jacques,  Jean 
had  gone  out  and  come  in  twice  with  two  full  baskets. 

He  had  gone  out  a  third  time. 

Having  taken  quarters  in  the  very  house  where  the  widow  lived,  a  benevolent 
spy,  he  never  abandoned  his  watch  except  to  help  her. 

"Poor  woman,"  he  continually  said  to  himself,  "she  has  nothing  from  the 
banker  and  what  from  the  rag-picker?  If  I  were  rich,  if  I  only  had  enough  to  pay 
the  rent  and  the  funeral  expenses.  What  a  life,  or  rather  what  death!  All  day 
on  the  run!  All  night  on  the  watch  between  a  corpse  and  a  cradle!  And  on  top 
of  all  the  rest  the  police  pestering  her  with  their  inquests  and  visits.  They  would 
do  much  better  to  catch  the  guilty  than  to  mangle  the  victims." 

He  was  thus  soliloquizing  during  his  third  trip,  when  he  had  a  singular  meeting 
beside  a  pile  of  dirt. 

An  individual,  tolerably  well-dressed  but  suspicious  in  appearance,  had  stopped 
there  before  him  and  thrown  a  bundle  into  it. 

Jean,  suddenly  coming  up,  thrust  his  hook  into  the  heap,  when  the  individual, 
who  had  started  as  if  to  retreat,  noticed  by  the  light  of  the  lantern  the  rag-picker's 
basket,  stopped  short,  and,  seized  with  an  irresistible  fit  of  curiosity,  said  to  Jean: 

"Where  did  you  get  that  basket,  I  should  like  to  know?" 


72  The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"That  doesn't  concern  you,  friend,"  said  Jean,  in  little  humor  for  talking,  espe- 
cially on  that  subject. 

And  again  he  plunged  in  his  hook. 

"  Oh  1  what's  this  1  an  infant  I " 

His  hook  had  torn  open  the  bundle,  which  contained  a  still-born  babe. 

"  Another  crime  I    Police !     Police  1 "  he  cried  with  all  his  might. 

Then  the  individual  wheeled  about  as  if  to  run  away. 

"  What !  the  coat  fits  you  ?    Stop ! " 

And  Jean  seized  him,  shouting  at  the  top  of  his  voice : 

"Police!  Where  are  they?  Sleeping  with  servants  or  hidden  in  doorways? 
Hurry  up;  don't  be  afraid!  It's  only  a  dead  baby  I " 

An  officer  came  at  last. 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

"  Here,  see  what  I  have  found,"  said  Jean,  still  keeping  a  firm  grip  upon  the  in- 
dividual. "  This  is  the  gentleman  who  threw  that  there." 

"No,  no,"  cried  the  individual,  struggling,  gesticulating,  and  swearing  in 
Italian. 

"Your  name?"  asked  the  officer. 

"  Paolo,  an  employee  at".  .  .  . 

And  he  stopped  short. 

"Where?    Tell  me,  or  I  arrest  you." 

"At  Madame  Gavard's." 

"What  does  she  do?" 

Again  Paolo  hesitated. 

"  She  is  a  midwife." 

"  Indeed  1 "  cried  Jean. 

"Well,  let  us  be  off,  then.  To  the. station-house,  everybody,"  decided  the 
officer. 

"To  kill  a  child,  there's  a  crime  for  you!  We  know  what  a  grown  man  is,  but 
a  child  we  cannot  know,"  said  Jean  to  himself,  thinking  of  the  little  Marie  as  he 
carried  the  poor  body  to  the  station-house. 

Then  he  returned  to  his  work,  and  in  a  frenzy  threw  the  rags  into  his  basket. 

At  last,  reaching  home  again,  overcome  with  fatigue,  he  threw  himself  upon  his 
pallet,  where  he  slept  until  late  in  the  morning. 

What  was  going  on  in  his  neighbor's  room  during  his  morning  slumber? 

She  did  not  sleep.  She  had  been,  not  wakened  from  her  sleep,  but  shaken  frora 
her  stupor  by  a  veritable  invasion  of  her  room. 

Janitor,  proprietor,  process-server,  auctioneer,  auctioneer's  clerk,  second-hand 
dealers,  and  buyers,  who  came,  in  the  name  of  justice,  to  execute  the  law  I 

Ravage  followed  invasion. 

The  process-server  brought  an  execution  for  the  last  quarter's  rent,  the  payment 
of  which  had  been  delayed  in  consequence  of  Louise  Didier's  confinement. 


The  Basket.  73 

The  auctioneer  immediately  took  possession,  sitting  down  rudely  in  the  arm- 
chair in  which  Louise  had  passed  the  night  and  from  which  she  had  just  risen 
with  a  start. 

The  clerk  asked  her  for  the  keys  to  her  furniture,  opened  the  different  pieces, 
took  out  the  linen  and  anything  that  he  found,  laying  everything  pell-mell,  upside 
down,  in  parcels,  on  the  table,  where  the  auctioneer  took  note  of  the  lots  of  the 
poor  establishment. 

The  proprietor  reviewed  each  article  with,  an  anxious  eye,  coldly  calculating 
whether  the  whole  would  suffice  to  pay  the  rent. 

The  public  subjected  to  the  same  careful  scrutiny  all  the  articles  to  be  sold, 
weighing  them,  estimating  their  condition  and  value,  the  women  especially  admir- 
ing their  cleanliness. 

The  auction  began  with  the  bed  coverlet. 

The  auctioneer  picked  it  up  roughly,  revealing,  stiff  upon  its  couch,— this  at 
least  unseizable,— the  pale  corpse  of  the  bank  collector. 

Louise,  stifling  a  cry,  covered  Jacques's  face  with  her  handkerchief,  the  body 
having  been  left  there  for  the  inquest  and  now  awaiting  burial. 

"A  woollen  blanket,  very  clean,  without  a  hole  or  a  stain,  in  good  condition!  A 
dollar,  did  I  hear  that  bid?"  cried  the  auctioneer,  quickly  recovering  from  his 
astonishment. 

"Dollar  ten,"  said  the  proprietor. 

"  Dollar  twenty,"  said  an  old  woman,  enviously. 

"Dollar  forty,"  cried  a  second-hand  dealer,  the  Jew  Gripou. 

"  Ah !  if  Canaille  &  Co.  are  here,  we  are  dona  for,"  said  the  old  woman  to  her 
neighbors.  "  It's  a  pity." 

"  Dollar  fifty,"  rejoined  the  proprietor. 

«  Dollar  sixty,"  said  the  old  woman. 

"Dollar  eighty,"  answered  another  second-hand  dealer,  with  an  Auvergnat 
accent. 

'.'One  Auvergnat  is  worth  two  Jews;  there's  no  hope,"  said  the  old  woman,  in  a 
rage. 

And  there  was  silence  for  a  time. 

"Dollar  eighty,"  repeated  the  auctioneer,  having  an  interest,  like  the  proprietor, 
in  getting  a  high  price  on  account  of  his  percentage;  "why,  that's  nothing  at  all! 
don't  you  see  that  it's  almost  new?" 

"  Dollar  ninety,"  pushed  on  the  proprietor. 

"  Two  dollars,"  exclaimed  the  Auvergnat. 

"Disgusting! "  cried  the  old  woman ;  "I  drop  it  entirely." 

Again  there  was  silence. 

"Two  dollars  ...  no  one  says  a  word?  Once,  twice,  going,  going,  gonel"  said 
the  auctioneer,  letting  fall  a  black  and  white  hammer  with  an  ebony  handle  and 
an  ivory  head. 


74*  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

Louise  had  not  left  her  husband's  side;  she  stood  erect,  petrified,  the  statue  of 
grief. 

The  sale  went  on. 

She  looked  at  this  crowd  in  her  orderly  home,  upsetting,  depreciating,  profaning 
its  chaste  and  sober  interior,  everything  that  she  had  that  was  private,  precious, 
and  dear  in  her  domestic  life,  these  poor  nothings  in  order  which  had  cost  her  so 
much  toil  and  care,  these  small  treasures  of  her  past  happiness,  these  solemn  wit- 
nesses of  happy  days,  these  gifts  associated  with  joyful  memories,  some  paid  for  by 
her  labor,  others  surprises  of  her  husband  for  her  birthday,  even  to  her  wedding- 
wreath,  the  entire  museum  of  her  love  ransacked,  scattered,  disparaged,  sold  at  a 
reduction,  at  a  contemptible  price,  in  presence  of  herself  and  her  dead  husband. 

She  felt  herself  becoming  mad,  unable  longer  to  stand,  as  if  they  had  torn,  sold, 
and  carried  away  the  shreds  of  her  heart. 

"  A  cradle,"  cried  the  auctioneer. 

At  this  word  she  leaped  like  a  lioness  toward  her  child. 

"Do  not  touch,"  she  cried,  and,  throwing  herself  upon  Marie,  she  lifted  her  from 
the  cradle,  suddenly  wakened  by  the  noise,  moaning  and  wailing  in  her  mother's 
arms. 

"Make  your  child  keep  quiet,"  said  the  auctioneer,  continuing: 

"A  wicker  cradle,  trimmed  with  muslin,  very  clean.  Forty  cents.  Keep  the 
child  quiet,  I  tell  you,  or  go  out ;  we  can  hear  nothing." 

To  quiet  the  child,  the  mother  gave  her  her  breast.  Alas  1  there  came  from  it 
only  a  thread  of  reddish  serum.  Suffering  had  turned  everything  ....  no  more 
milk,  nothing  but  blood  1 

The  child. cried  with  hunger  and  shook  convulsively. 

Then  Louise  Didier,  as  if  impelled  by  an  extreme  resolution,  went  out  suddenly 
with  her  daughter  hanging  on  her  neck. 

"  Good  enough ! "  said  the  satisfied  auctioneer. 

"  A  cradle,  forty  cents  ".  .  . 

"  Fifty,"  cried  a  young  wife,  who  seemed  to  have  a  pregnant  woman's  desire  for 
the  article.  And  the  auction  went  on  briskly. 

Jean,  awakened  also  by  the  noise  of  the  sale,  had  come  down  from  his  garret  to 
the  chamber;  and,  seeing  the  door  open -and  the  room  full  of  people,  he  entered 
and  stood  for  a  moment  dumbfounded  by  what  he  saw  and  heard. 

"What's  the  matter?  What's  this?  What!  What!  An  auction  here!"  he 
cried  at  last  to  the  janitor. 

"  Well,  what  of  it?  You  see  for  yourself.  You  can  hear  as  well  as  I.  We  are 
selling  everything  to  get  the  rent.  What  then?"  answered  the  janitor,  in- 
differently. 

Still  a  warm  dispute  was  going  on  for  the  cradle. 

"And  Mme.  Didier?"  said  Jean,  alarmed. 


The  Basket.  75 

"Gone  out." 

"And  the  child?" 

"With  her." 

"And  where?" 

"Faith,  I  don't  know." 

"When?" 

"Just  now." 

Jean  asked  nothing  more,  but  started  like  a  ball,  leaping  down  the  stairs  and 
rushing  like  a  madman  into  the  street  after  Mme.  Didier.  .  .  . 

"A  pretty  little  cradle,"  continued  the  auctioneer.  "See,  ladies,  all  white,  fresh, 
and  trimmed,  at  only  a  dollar.  It's  no  price  at  all;  it's  worth  double  the  money." 

"Dollar  ten,"  said  the  young  woman. 

"Dollar  twenty,"  answered  the  proprietor. 

"But  you  are  a  bachelor;  you  have  no  need  of  that." 

"Dollar  thirty." 

"  Dollar  forty,"  said  the  Auvergnat. 

"Dollar  sixty,"  said  the  Jew. 

"Are  you  going  to  have  a  baby,  like  me,  old  Auvergnat?"  cried  the  exasperated 
young  woman ;  "and  you,  old  Jew,  can  your  old  Rebecca  still  make  little  Jacobs?" 

"  Dollar  eighty,"  answered  Gripon,  without  laughing. 

And  there  was  another  period  of  silence. 

"Once,  twice.  Dollar  eighty!  No  more  amateurs?  For  the  third  time.  Dol- 
lar eighty!  Sold!" 

The  sale  concluded:  all  the  furniture, — clothes-press,  chest  of  drawers,  cup 
board,  table,  chairs;  all  the  linen, — sheets,  table-cloths,  shirts,  napkins,  handker- 
chiefs; all  the  household  implements, — shovels,  tongs,  broom,  dustbrush;  all  the 
humble  utensils  of  the  poor  woman's  kitchen ;  all  the  wearing-apparel, — garments, 
shoes,  caps; — everything  passed  under  the  fatal  hammer,  everything  was  struck 
and  coined  into  money  for  the  pocket  of  the  proprietor,  the  official,  and  the  second- 
hand dealer. 

The  spoils  were  divided  in  the  interest  of  those  three  harpies, — property,  the 
law,  and  usury. 

As  for  the  creature  who  had  acquired  and  accumulated  it  all  by  dint  of  labor 
and  economy,  nothing  was  left  for  her  but  her  weeping  eyes.  And  as  for  her  sis- 
ters in  poverty  who  hoped  for  bits  of  her  effects,  they  had  to  buy  them  on  the  in- 
stalment plan  from  the  three  monopolists. 

The  proprietor  held  out  against  the  Auvergnat  and  the  Jew  and  arranged  •with 
them  to  surrender,  in  consideration  of  a  premium,  all  that  he  had  bid  in, — in 
short,  he  was  repaid  and  more. 

The  Jew  and  the  Auvergnat,  hand  and  glove  together,  sold  to  advantage  all  that 
they  had  bought  —  coverlet,  cradle,  furniture,  linen,  etc.  —  to  the  old  and  young 


76  The  Hay-Picker  of  Paris. 

wives,  who  paid  double  and  triple  according  to  their  necessities.  Then  all  was 
over, — the  furniture  removed,  the  room  evacuated,  the  door  closed;  and  each  re- 
tired, speculating  and  commenting  upon  his  profits  and  losses,  more  or  less  content. 
Meanwhile  Jean  had  overtaken  Madame  Didier  with  his  eyes,  and  was  following 
her  as  if  he  were  her  dog. 


The  Basket.  77 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

RETURN  TO  THE  BOARD  OP  PUBLIC  CHARITIES. 

In  the  Public  Charities  building  a  bare  and  gloomy  room,  divided  into  two  by  a 
wooden  barrier,  was  devoted  to  the  reception  of  abandoned  infants. 

Unfortunate  or  degraded  mothers,  indifferent  or  constrained  relatives,  midwives 
or  simple  commissioners,  came  to  this  human  pawn-shop  to  pledge  forever  their 
own  children  or  the  children  of  others. 

On  this  first  day  of  April  poverty  had  driven  a  number  of  unfortunates  to  this 
ante-room  of  the  hospital  for  found,  or  rather  lost,  children. 

The  aspect  of  the  room  was  terrible  from  the  very  variety  of  its  phases  of  despair 
and  shame. 

Some  of  the  women,  silent  or  excited,  resigned  or  maddened,  with  eyes  moist  or 
burning,  offered  for  the  last  time  an  exhausted  and  withered  bosom  to  the  fruit  of 
their  love,  while  awaiting  the  supreme  and  frightful  sacrifice  of  Carthage  to  Paris. 

By  the  side  of  the  mothers  were  step-mothers,  with  eyes  dry  and  hard,  sneering 
at  these  mute  sorrows  which  condemned  them.  Some  brought  their  children  to 
save  them,  others  to  lose  them.  These,  unfortunate,  were  no  longer  able  to  feed 
their  poor  offspring;  those,  rarer  and  more  miserable,  were  no  longer  willing 
to  do  so  1 

"Poverty  is  not  a  vice,"  said  Voltaire;  "it  is  much  worse."  Yes,  it  is  a  crime, 
a  social  crime  I  Where  were  the  responsible  authors  of  these  miseries?  For,  when 
a  woman  falls,  it  is  because  a  man  has  pushed  her.  In  love  there  is  no  fault  with- 
out an  accomplice,  and  the  accomplice  here  is  the  real  author.  And  the  law,  as 
immoral  as  the  prostitution  which  it  creates,  maintains,  and  regulates,  prohibits 
search  for  the  original  criminal  in  forbidding  inquiry  as  to  paternity. 

Yes,  most  of  these  destitute  creatures  had  committed  their  "fault"  perforce, 
driven  to  it  by  poverty !  Their  babies  had  no  father.  .  .  .  No  father !  O  law  of 
nature  I  O  so-called  civil  code ! 

On  the  bench,  between  two  midwives,  in  a  hurry  to  finish  their  professional  duty, 
a  man  in  the  prime  of  life,  the  workingman  of  the  Mount  of  Piety,  dandled  an  in- 
fant feverishly  upon  his  knees.  In  his  whole  person  there  was  something  tragic, 
an  immense  sentiment  of  tenderness  mingled  with  indignation  and  even  with 
rebellion. 


78  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

In  front  of  him  a  vixen,  abominably  drunk,  was  constantly  on  the  point  of 
dropping  her  offspring,  which,  all  covered  with  pustules,  seemed  to  have  an  alco- 
holic head. 

The  clerk  in  charge  of  this  infernal  office  registered  the  abandonments,  talking 
to  the  women  in  a  supercilious  and  wearied  tone.  He  was  in  a  hurry  to  get 
through.  .  .  .  and  while  the  mothers  stifled  their  sobs  and  embraced  their  crying 
babies,  he  looked  at  the  clock  and  rolled  a  cigarette. 

From  time  to  time  he  stormed. 

"  A  little  silence  1     Whose  turn  next ?  " 

The  habit  of  following  this  diabolical  calling  had  hardened  the  bureaucrat 
against  emotion.  Through  handling  iron  the  blacksmith  gets  callous  hands;  this 
clerk  had  a  callous  heart,  lie  wrote  rapidly,  unmoved  by  the  mothers'  tears  fall- 
ing under  his  pen  and  moistening  the  fatal  registry. 

The  midwives  came  first,  no  one  disputing  this  privilege  with  them;  then  the 
liquor-soaked  woman  advanced  to  offer  her  bud. 

"Here'sh  a  present  I  make  you,"  said  she  to  the  clerk.  "Soon  you  will  have  a 
pah-." 

The  bureaucrat  turned  away  to  avoid  breathing  the  odor  of  brandy  which  the 
creature  exhaled. 

"Pooh ! "  he  exclaimed.    "Why  don't  you  keep  your  child?" 

"  Can't.    My  husband  drinks  disgustingly." 

"And  you?" 

"I,  never.  Besides,  my  husband  beats  me,  and  my  milk  spoils.  Understand? 
It  is  to  save  the  brat." 

"All  right;  hand  it  over  I" 

"  There  you  are.  Good  luck,  little  glutton,  you  will  suck  at  the  municipal  bottle. 
Don't  deprive  yourself  1  get  full,  like  papa." 

"And  mamma,"  said  the  clerk;  "she  ought  to  be  condemned  to  water." 

"  To  water  yourself !     Oh !  it's  poison.  .  .  .  not  good  even  for  drunkards." 

"  Another !  and  quickly  I " 

And  as  the  mothers  naturally  did  not  hurry,  and  looked  at  each  other  with 
terror,  the  clerk  hailed  the  workingman. 

"  Say,  you  there,  come  forward.     A  man.   .  .  .  this  is  a  pretty  how-do-you-do ! " 

The  workingman  started  under  the  insult. 

"Confounded  clerk,  attend  to  your  scribbling,"  he  cried.  "Ah!  one  of  these 
days,  and  before  long  too,  we'll  give  it  to  you." 

"  Threats  I " 

"Until  we  can  do  better.  To  think  that  we  have  to  pay  all  these  quill-drivers 
for  bullying  us  1 " 

"Go  on,  I  hear,"  said  the  clerk,  "you  are  a  red.  ...  or  rather  a  loafer." 

"Yes,  a  forced  loafer;  I  am  out  of  work,  and  I  have  only  my  arms  with  which 


TJie  Basket.  79 

to  feed  my  child.  I  am  not  in  the  same  case  as  you,  who  have  enough  to  feed  the 
child  that  perhaps  you  do  not  possess  or  that  you  lay  in  the  nest  of  others." 

"Enough,  we  know  the  tune.     Your  name?" 

"Brutus  Chaumette." 

"Good,  the  name  goes  with  the  principles.  You  are  a  spirit  of  the  great  epoch, 
it  seems." 

"Yes,  republican  from  father  to  son." 

"  Well,  this  shall  end  the  race.  We  will  bring  it  up  differently.  It  shall  be  a 
royalist." 

"We  shall  see." 

"You  had  better  take  it  back.     Why  leave  it  with  us?" 

"  Why  ?  Because  her  mother  is  dead,  and  I  cannot  give  her  suck,  and  I  wish 
her  to  live." 

"What  is  her  name?" 

"Marianne." 

"Oh,  that's  promising  1     Here,  put  your  name  at  the  bottom  of  this  sheet." 

The  workiugman  signed,  kissed  the  little  girl,  and  then  went  out,  turning  back 
toward  the  clerk  and  shaking  his  fist  at  him. 

The  bureaucrat,  while  filling  out  Marianne's  registration  paper,  gave  a  lecture 
on  morality  ad  hoc  to  the  poor  women  whom  he  was  under  instructions  to  treat 
harshly  in  order  to  turn  as  many  of  them  as  possible  away  from  the  budget  of 
Public  Charities  for  the  benefit  of  the  budget-eaters,  the  biggest,  fattest,  and  most 
insatiable  of  beggars. 

So  the  official,  faithful  to  this  order  of  exclusion,  growled  away  as  he  scribbled : 

"Ah!  I  know  you,  my  wenches,  and  it  will  be  vain  for  you  to  deny  what  I  say; 

only  unnatural  mothers  come  here.  .  .  .  No  excuses!  Without  work? 

ta-ra-ta-ta,  without  work,  yes!  When  people  make  children,  they  must  keep  them. 
No  pleasure  without  pain.  Indeed,  that  would  be  too  convenient.  They  come 
from  the  country  to  Paris,  believing  that  larks  are  going  to  fall  all  roasted  into 
their  beaks.  .  .  .  Think  of  it!  ....  And  what  happens?  They  do  not  work, 
they  allow  themselves  to  be  inveigled.  .  .  .  they  commit  a  fault,  as  you  call  it. 
After  the  performance  comes  abandonment.  They  are  left  alone.  .  .  .  the  man 
goes  and  the  kid  comes.  .  .  .  Then  they  whine  and  cry  poverty;  and  then  at  (he 
last  they  bring  up  here  as  at  "my  aunt's."  Ah!  but,  you  know,  it  is  not  the  same 
to  the  end.  Here  they  pawn,  but  they  cannot  redeem.  A  child  found  for  the 
Public  Charities  is  a  child  lost  for  the  mamma.  A  warning  to  such  as  have  hearts. 
There  is  still  time." 

This  harangue,  ingeniously  drawn  up  and  learned  and  recited  by  heart,  had  on 
this  occasion,  as  it  always  had,  an  excellent  result  for  the  administration ;  three  or 
four  women,  the  best  of  them,  rose  and  went  out,  taking  their  babies.  But 
patience:  poverty  does  not  lose  its  rights;  mothers  and  children  will  be  found 


80  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

tonight  drowned  in  the  Seine  or  hanging  to  some  nail  or  suffocated  in  their  room. 

Ah  1  these  suicides  are  murders  I 

The  pitiless  clerk,  undoubtedly  decorated  for  this,  went  on  with  his  task,  regis- 
tering social  conditions,  passing  the  abandoned  little  ones  to  a  woman  in  waiting, 
and  in  exchange  handing  the  unfortunates  papers  to  sign. 

At  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  room  was  empty.  The  clerk  resumed  his 
ease  and  lighted  his  cigarette. 

"  Ahl  it's  over,"  said  he,  stretching  his  arms  carelessly.  "No  damage.  A  dog's 
life.  Always  the  same  thing.  What  a  bore!  Oh !  if  there  were  no  perquisites  1 " 

At  that  moment  two  new  faces  appeared  in  the  room.  The  first,  Mme.  Gavard, 
made  her  entrance  superbly  with  an  infant  under  each  arm. 

The  clerk  was  as  polite  to  her  as  he  had  been  rude  to  the  others.  A  smile  spread 
over  his  entire  face.  He  even  forgot  his  cigarette. 

The  midwife  advanced  straight  to  the  desk,  sure  of  her  business  and  of  a  cordial 
welcome,  as  an  habitue'e,  even  as  a  friend,  almost  as  mistress  of  the  establishment. 

Why?    Administrative  mystery. 

"Here  are  two  for  today,"  said  she,  depositing  her  double  burden  on  the  table 
and  then  extending  to  the  clerk  a  hand  which  did  not  seem  empty. 

The  girl  charged  with  verifying  the  sex  approached  complacently  and  said  in  a 
loud  voice: 

"  Male  sex." 

And,  without  further  formalities,  she  carried  the  infants  into  an  adjoining  room. 

"Just  born,  at  my  house,  no  name,  father  and  mother  unknown,"  said  the  Ga- 
vard, expeditiously. 

"All  right!  sign,  please,"  said  the  clerk. 

The  midwife  signed,  and  went  to  sit  down  and  talk  with  the  examiner,  who  had 
come  in  again. 

"No  one  else  ...  no  ...  yes,  there  is!  What  is  it  that  you  want,  you  there?" 
cried  the  clerk. 

He  had  just  noticed  a  dark  shadow  at  the  rear  of  the  room,  the  woman  who  had 
entered  behind  the  Gavard. 

He  went  on  scolding: 

"  Ah !  you  don't  hear  then?    Is  your  business  for  today  or  tomorrow?" 

The  woman  thus  appealed  to  dragged  herself  toward  the  desk. 

She  was  hardened  to  all  outrages,  and  had  already,  on  revisiting  this  hell,  met 
one  insult  more  as  she  entered,  from  the  jovial  attendant  of  the  charity  office,  who 
had  said  to  her  in  passing: 

"Back  from  Epinal  already?" 

But  she  was  no  Jonger  sensible  or  conscious  of  anything  except  the  desperate  act 
which  she  came  to  perform. 

"I  beg  pardon,  Monsieur,"  said  she,  "but".  .  .  . 


The  Basket.  81 

"No  buts.  We  will  put  this  through  in  two  times  and  three  motions.  Besides, 
it  is  purely  an  accommodation  on  my  part.  Shall  we  say,  then,  that  you  abandon 
your  child?" 

"  Yes  ...  it  is  necessary ".  .  .  . 

"Naturally.  .  .     And  of  course  it  is  yours,  at  least?" 

"Oh!  yes,"  burst  out  the  mother ;  "Marie  .  .  .  farewell  1    I  shall  die." 

"  Oh !  that's  the  usual  racket ;  come,  pass  the  child  to  Madame." 

The  woman  in  waiting,  the  cynical  examiner,  seated  on  a  camp-bed  covered  with 
haircloth,  rose  listlessly  and  took  the  baby,  which  began  to  cry,  being  frightened 
and  hungry. 

"Bahl  you  will  see  many  others,"  said  she,  stretching  the  little  one  on  the  hard 
bed  and  unswathing  her  rudely,  as  one  opens  a  bundle  to  verify  its  contents. 

The  mother  had  fallen  on  the  bench. 

"AV  hat's  your  name,  Mam'zelle?"  asked  the  clerk. 

"  Madame  Didier,"  answered  the  widow,  proudly. 

The  bureaucrat  turned  to  the  examiner. 

"AVhat?  .  .  .  male?"  he  asked. 

"No,  Monsieur,  it  is  a  girl,"  the  mother  hastened  to  answer,  wounded  by  this 
brutal  question. 

"  No  one  spoke  to  you,"  said  the  cl  erk ;  "  you  saw  well  enough  that  I  addressed 
myself  to  the  searcher." 

"Feminine  sex,"  said  the  latter,  rolling  the  child  up  in  its  linen. 

"  Oh !  you  will  hurt  her,"  cried  the  mother,  as  if  she  had  felt  the  shock  herself. 

"That's  not  your  business  now,"  answered  the  clerk,  who  went  on  filling  out  the 
registry  blanks  until  he  reached  the  heading :  Motives. 

"Why  do  you  abandon  your  child?"  he  said,  repeating  the  question  which  he 
had  put  to  the  workingman  a  little  while  before. 

"  Why  do  I  abandon  her?"  repeated  the  widow,  with  a  look  of  surprise. 

"Yes;  answer!" 

"  Because  I  cannot  do  anything  else,  Monsieur ;  because  I  have  no  more  milk," 
said  Louise,  staggering  as  if  she  had  been  drunk;  "because  it  is  my  blood  that 
flows".  .  . 

"Blood  ...  or  wine." 

"  Oh  1  wretch,"  murmured  the  widow,  falling  back  on  her  bench;  "have  I,  then, 
committed  a  crime,  that  I  should  be  punished  in  this  way?" 

The  clerk  did  not  hear  or  did  not  want  to  hear. 

"Received!  "  he  cried  to  the  girl,  who  disappeared  with  the  child  through  a  low 
door-way  on  the  other  side  of  the  barrier. 

And  he  continued  in  a  tone  of  doubt : 

"Then  you  say  this  child  has  a  father?" 

"No,  Monsieur." 


82  The  Bag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"That's  it,  she  has  no  father." 

"She  no  longer  has  one." 

"I  understand;  he  is  traveling.     Known?" 

"lie  is  dead,""  replied  the  widow;  "murdered  at  night  while  defending  his  col- 
lections. And  if  you  doubt  it,  come  with  me.  He  is  at  our  house  .  .  .  this  is  the 
third  day,  and  I  have  no  money  to  pay  for  his  burial." 

"  The  devil!  look  out  for  disease  in  the  house,"  said  the  clerk.  "Murdered  .  .  . 
stay  I  we  will  put  down  this  detail ! " 

And  he  mentioned  this  "detail"  on  his  register,  interested  by  the  peculiarity  of 
the  circumstance;  then,  handing  a  sheet  of  paper  to  the  widow,  he  said: 

"Sign  that  ...  good!  .  .  .  Now,  I  must  tell  you  of  the  regulations.  Your 
daughter  will  be  sent  into  the  country  in  the  course  of  a  fortnight.  You  will  not 
know  where  she  is,  do  you  understand?" 

"But,  Monsieur,"  cried  Louise,  horrified  by  this  atrocious  revelation,  the  crown 
of  this  scheme  of  official  charity  invented  by  the  believers  in  the  family  .  .  .  "but 
it  is  impossible.  I  swear  to  you  that  I  will  take  the  child  back  right  away,  as  soon 
as  I  can  find  a  way  to  earn  my  living.  Oh!  it  will  not  be  long! " 

The  bureaucrat  shook  his  head  impatiently. 

"  Take  it  back  .  .  .  You  will  not  see  it  again,  I  tell  you.  The  most  that  can 
be  granted  you,  if  you  get  work  and  behave  yourself,  is  an  occasional  bulletin  of 
life  .  .  .  or  of  death,  as  the  case  may  be ;  and  it  is  rather  the  latter  that  you  should 
expect.  There's  not  one  in  five  that  .  .  .  But  that  will  do.  Go ;  good  evening." 

The  mother  gave  an  inexpressible  cry.  She  rushed  to  the  railing  and  leaped 
over  it,  crying  with  love,  fright,  and  fury : 

"My  child  1     Give  me  back  my  child !     I  take  her  again." 

"You  have  signed!     Stop!"  cried  the  bureaucrat,  but  he  could  not  prevent  her. 

Mad  and  strong  with  grief,  she  opened  the  low  door  through  which  Marie  had 
disappeared  in  the  examiner's  arms,  and  found  herself  in  a  large,  dismal  room,  re- 
calling the  infants'  limbos  of  the  JSneid,  filled  with  poor  little  creatures,  consump- 
tive  and  timid,  some  stretched  upon  benches,  others  stuffed  into  coarse  cradles,  all 
guarded  and  watched  by  Sisters  of  Charity,  most  of  whom  were  old  and  whose 
repressed  maternity  had  turned,  by  a  sort  of  physical  and  moral  allotropy,  into  poi- 
soned gall.  Parodies  of  motherhood,  caricatures  of  womanhood,  jailers  of  child- 
hood, guardians  of  this  orphans'  morgue,  they  glided  about  like  black  spectres, 
with  rods  in  their  hands,  ill-tempered  and  awkward,  distributing  among  their 
angels  consecrated  box,  holy  water,  and  whippings,  instead  of  caresses,  cakes,  and 
toys. 

Louise  uttered  a  groan. 

"Where  is  Marie?"  she  cried,  in  anguish,  looking  about  among  the  mass. 

"  Find  her,"  said  a  sharp  voice. 

"Lost I    I  want  her;  she  is  mine!     She  is  my  child  1" 


The  Basket.  83 

A  wail  answered  her. 

Without  heeding  the  fright  and  indignation  of  the  good  Sisters,  the  mother  ran 
to  a  distant  cradle,  whence  came  a  familiar  plaint,  which  had  moved  the  mother 
to  the  heart. 

"Youl"  said  she,  grasping  and  clasping  her  with  frenzy.  "Not  take  you  back, 
not  see  you  again!  She  live  without  me  and  I  without  herl  Never!  never!  we 
will  die  together." 

On  returning  to  the  office,  she  found  herself  face  to  fate  with  Jean,  who  cried 
out  to  her : 

"  No,  you  shall  live  together." 

Jean,  who  had,  as  we  know,  caught  sight  of  her  and  followed  her  to  the  Public 
Charities  building,  had  then  gone  almost  at  one  bound  to  the  Berville  mansion, 
where,  fortunately,  he  had  found  the  good  and  honest  Bremont. 

Then  he  had  returned  quickly,  in  a  perspiration,  with  joyous  heart,  pockets  full, 
and  hands  loaded  with  a  cradle  and  other  articles. 

"  I  arrive  in  time,  and  with  all  that  you  need ;  you  have  taken  her  back,  that's 
the  main  thing,"  said  he  to  the  stupefied  Louise:  "put  Marie  in  this  cradle,  and 
come;  I  will  carry  everything  home.  Thanks  to  M.  Bremont,  a  worthy  man,  you 
will  pay  rent,  funeral  expenses,  and  all.  Let  us  leave  here,  and  quickly ! " 

And  he  led  away  Louise,  who  had  to  lean  upon  his  arm  in  order  to  walk  and 
was  unable  even  to  thank  him. 

As  they  went  out,  three  personages  entered,  two  of  whom  seemed  to  be  subordi- 
nates of  the  third. 

They  advanced  with  covered  heads  and  an  air  of  authority;  and  the  chief  said  in 
an  imperative  tone: 

"Madame  Gavard  1 " 

"  That's  my  name,  Monsieur,"  said  the  midwife,  in  surprise. 

"You  are  really  Madame  Gavard,  midwife?" 

"  Yes,  Monsieur,"  said  she,  growing  alarmed. 

"  Then,  in  the  name  of  the  law,  I  arrest  you,"  said  he,  showing  his  scarf. 

Upon  a  signal  from  the  police  official,  his  two  subalterns  surrounded  the  Gavard, 
now  fairly  thunderstruck. 

"  Why  ?    For  what ?  "  she  cried. 

Without  answering  her,  the  official  went  straight  to  the  clerk  and  said  to  him : 

"In  the  name  of  the  law,  I  arrest  you  too,  Monsieur,  as  an  accomplice." 


84  The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  HOTEL  MEUKICE. 

We  will  now  pass  from  the  East  End  to  the  West  End  of  Paris,  from  the  poor 
quarter  to  the  rich  quarter ;  for  in  Paris  as  in  London  and  in  every  place  where 
west  winds  prevail,  carrying  all  vapors  and  miasma  to  the  east,  wealth  naturally 
occupies  the  healthiest  part  of  the  city,  the  western  part. 

In  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  therefore,  in  the  Hotel  Meurice,  then  as  now  the  most 
sumptuous  hotel  for  travellers  of  high  position,  and  in  its  finest  suite  of  rooms,  the 
suite  on  the  second  floor  with  a  balcony,  facing  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries  and 
commanding  a  view  of  the  Faubourg  Saint  Germain,  were  two  guests,  who  had 
arrived  two  days  before,  with  heavy  trunks  apparently  new,  and  had  established 
themselves  as  patrons  with  full  pockets. 

One  was  the  valet  and  the  other  the  master ;  they  seemed  to  be  of  the  same  age 
and  resembled  each  other  in  size  and  complexion;  both  had  a  rich  look  and  a 
haughty  air,  making  it  impossible  to  tell  which  was  the  master  and  which  the  valet. 

The  suite  which  they  occupied  consisted  of  sleeping  apartments,  parlor,  and 
dining-room,  coupling  Parisian  luxury  with  English  comfort,  and  including  all  the 
superfluous  features  necessary  to  the  habitues  of  the  house. 

Carpets,  curtains,  and  furniture,  —  all  were  of  silk  and  velvet,  stuffed,  thick,  soft, 
dark,  padded,  upholstered,  and  close,  made  in  short  for  the  eyes,  feet,  and  backs  of 
aristocrats;  shielding  their  delicate  senses  from  light  and  noise,  deadeijing  the 
glare  of  the  day,  stifling  the  sound  of  steps  .  .  .  and  a  good  fire  in  every  room  to 
keep  away  the  chill  and  the  dampness.  What  a  bill  to  pay ! 

Already  the  master,  on  inscribing  his  noble  name  on  the  hotel  register,  had  paid 
for  a  fortnight  in  advance,  without  calculation,  at  the  maximum  rate,  with  a  gene- 
rous fee  for  service. 

On  the  morning  of  the  second  day  after  the  arrival  of  the  two  new  comers,  they 
had  ordered  a  fine  breakfast  served  in  their  dining-room  at  an  early  hour. 

Two  plates  only  were  laid  on  a  table  loaded  with  silver  and  glass  ware  elabo- 
rately chased  and  cut  in  forms  of  flowers  and  fruits,  pell-mell,  a  la  Rusne,  with 
poultry,  fish,  and  venison  with  truffles,  vegetables  and  fruits  out  of  season  and  rea- 
son, green  peas  and  red  strawberries  in  winter,  June  products  in  March,  in  Lent, 
two  days  after  Mardi  Gras,  on  the  very  morrow  of  Ash  Wednesday. 


The,  Basket.  85 

Every  day  is  caniival  for  the  rich,  as  every  day  is  fast-day  for  the  poor.  And 
as  the  poor  man  has  no  summer,  so  the  rich  man  has  no  winter.  He  carries  the 
sun  in  his  pocket,  in  his  purse. 

The  valet  was  superintending  the  service  performed  by  other  valets,  those  of  the 
hotel,  who  looked  out  for  him  as  solemnly  as  for  the  master. 

The  master  was  still  stretched  upon  his  featherbed,  though  not  asleep;  for  the 
whisperings  of  a  bitter-sweet  conversation  could  be  heard,  proving  that  he  was 
awake  and  not  alone. 

A  ring  of  the  bell,  coming  from  the  chamber,  proved  it  still  more  conclusively. 
The  valet,  answering  it  quickly  and  coming  back  likewise,  said  to  the  waiters  in 
an  imperious  tone : 

"  Serve  the  breakfast  1 " 

The  door  of  the  chamber  then  opened,  allowing  a  charming  couple  to  enter  the 
room  arm.  in  arm,  the  woman  in  all  the  splendor  of  beauty,  fashion,  and  pleasure, 
the  man  in  all  the  strength  and  joy  of  a  well-spent  night  and  the  hope  of  a  well- 
served  meal. 

They  took  their  places  at  the  table,  and  all  the  hotel  servants  went  out;  the  valet 
was  following  them,  when  his  master  said  to  him : 

"John,  has  the  tailor  come?" 

"  Not  yet,  Monseigneur." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  the  master,  in  a  tone  of  irritation;  "as  soon  as  he  arrives, 
show  him  into  the  parlor  and  let  me  know;  I  expect  him.  Now  gol" 

"Yes,  Monseigneur." 

And  the  valet  bowed  and  withdrew. 

The  couple,  left  alone,  attacked  the  viands  with  a  keenness  of  appetite  which  a 
good  night  imparts  to  the  young,  devouring  side  dishes,  principal  dishes,  sweetened 
entrees,  obelisks  of  asparagus,  and  then  the  dessert,  with  its  pastries  large  and 
small,  with  its  ices  and  jellies  melting  in  the  fire  and  flame  of  the  choicest  brands 
of  wine,  Madeira,  Bordeaux,  champagne,  coffee,  pousse-cafe,  cordials.  .  .  .  and  tea 
to  digest  the  whole.  A  meal  for  two  rich  people,  the  price  of  which  would  have 
kept  a  hundred  Didier  families  alive. 

The  conversation,  begun  in  bed  and  continued  at  the  table,  gradually  became 
animated,  and  finally,  under  the  influence  of  Comus  and  Bacchus,  multiplied  by 
Venus,  passed  from  gay  to  grave,  from  lively  to  severe. 

Heads  seemed  excited  no  less  than  hearts.  Teeth  and  forks  at  rest,  they  were 
at  their  last  cup  of  tea,  when  Monsieur  said  to  Madame  : 

"Well,  my  dear,  you  see  my  position.  What  is  your  decision?  A  conclusion 
must  be  reached.  Whom  do  you  choose?" 

"  Why  choose  ?  "  she  answered,  with  an  adder-like  movement. 

"  Because  I  want  you  for  myself  alone  as  before,"  said  he,  passionately. 

"Impossible,"  said  she,  with  a  cold  coquetry;  "I  have  engagements  now," 


86  The  Sag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"What!  in  spite  of  our  child?" 

"It  is  not  my  fault  if  you  have  not  been  able  to  keep  your  promises.  For  my 
part,  I  have  other  ties." 

"Do  not  speak  of  them,"  said  he,  in  a  threatening  tone;  "break  them,  and  come 
back  wholly  to  me,  I  pray  you,  or  "  .... 

"Or  what?"  said  she,  defiantly. 

"  Or  I  kill  myself  in  your  presence." 

"Ah!  no  nonsense.  You  ask  for  too  much,  indeed.  Remember  that  he  wishes 
to  marry  me,  exactly  that !  To  become  Countess  de  Frinlair  is  a  fine  chance,  isn't 
it?  And  you  would  think  me  a  fool  to  lose  it." 

"  The  wife  of  Frinlair  I  Never  I "  said  he,  in  a  voice  full  of  hatred,  envy,  jealousy, 
wrath,  and  revenge. 

The  fury  of  the  one  increased  with  the  cynicism  of  the  other. 

"  Well,  why  not?    Each  one  for  himself! " 

"But  I  am  richer  than  he." 

"  Yes,  but  you  will  not  marry." 

"  I  pay  only  the  more  on  that  account." 

"But  you  owe  so  much!  Do  you  know  that  you  are  running  great  risks  here, 
imprudent  man?" 

"  There  is  nothing  that  I  would  not  brave  for  you,  so  much  do  I  love  you." 

"  Suppose  some  one  should  inform  against  you  1  In  your  place  I  should  be  afraid 
of  Clichy." 

"If  I  go  there,  I  shall  be  like  Ouvrard;  my  prison  will  be  a  palace.  But  Frinlair 
is  tracked,  and  unless  he  has  promised  you  an  allowance"  .... 

"  Let  us  see,  how  much  have  you?  " 

A  light  and  discreet  knock  at  the  door  interrupted  the  conversation. 

"  Come  in,"  said  the  master. 

And  the  valet,  entering,  announced  the  arrival  of  the  tailor. 

"Very  well;  let  him  wait  in  the  parlor.    I  will  be  there  presently." 

The  valet  gone,  the  bitter  conversation  was  taken  up  where  the  interruption  had 
broken  it  off,  and  rose  rapidly  to  the  pitch  of  violence. 

Bitten  to  the  heart  by  jealousy,  in  the  sensitive  spot,  pride,  the  gentleman  grew 
more  and  more  enraged,  as  he  sipped  his  brandy. 

"  So  you  will  not  leave  him?"  said  he. 

"Not  without  knowing  whom  I  take  back  I " 

"  You  ask  me  how  much  I  have?" 

"Yes,  and  you  do  not  answer,"  said  she,  with  an  air  of  doubt,  suspicion,  and 
bravado;  "let  us  see." 

"  Well  1  I  have  all  that  is  necessary  for  you,  traitress,"  said  he,  frantically.  "  I 
have  gold  to  pay  you  or  lead  to  punish  you." 

And  suddenly,  drawing  a  pistol  from  his  pocket,  he  placed  it  squarely  against 


The  Basket.  87 

her  heart  and  fired.     Without  a  cry  or  a  gesture,  the  report  stifled  by  the  proximity 
of  the  weapon  to  her  body,  the  woman  sank  back  over  her  chair,  dead. 

Without  even  looking  at  his  victim,  the  assassin  reloaded  the  weapon,  put  it  back 
in  his  pocket,  went  out,  locked  the  door,  and  walked  straight  to  the  parlor,  glutted 
with  all  the  pleasures  of  man  and  of  the  gods,  lust  and  revenge,  cooled  by  his  crime 
and  calm  in  his  ferocity. 

Led  back  to  his  mistress  by  passion  which  had  overcome  his  prudence,  he  had 
killed  her  through  jealousy  and  prudence,  which  in  turn  had  become  stronger  than 
his  passion. 

In  the  parlor  the  tailor  was  waiting  with  the  valet,  having  taken  from  its  wrap- 
pings a  full  suit  cut  in  the  latest  fashion  and  spread  it  on  the  divan. 

"You  are  behind  time,"  said  the  master,  severely. 

"Monseigneur  was  in  such  a  hurry,"  said  the  tailor,  respectfully.  "Will  Mon- 
seigneur  try  it  on?" 

"I  have  no  time." 

"When  shall  I  come  again,  Monseigneur?" 

"  I  will  let  you  know." 

"  I  think  no  alteration  will  be  needed ;  but  if  perchance  "  .  .  .  . 

"The  bill?" 

"  Oh !  there's  no  hurry,  Monseigneur,"  said  the  tailor,  while  presenting  the 
account  as  quickly  as  obsequiously. 

"How  much?"  asked  the  master,  without  looking  at  the  price  any  more  than  at 
the  clothes. 

"Seventy-five  dollars,  Monseigneur." 

"It  is  receipted?" 

"Yes,  Monseigneur." 

"  All  right." 

Then  he  looked  at  the  suit  as  if  examining  the  cloth,  placed  the  bill  in  the  pocket 
of  the  coat,  opened  his  purse,  paid  cash,  and  dismissed  the  surprised  tailor,  charmed 
at  having  a  customer  as  prodigal  as  he  was  easy  to  satisfy. 

"John,"  then  said  the  master  to  the  valet,  "  I  am  in.a  hurry ;  Madame  is  waiting 
for  me ;  I  have  no  time  to  try  these  on,  to  undress  and  dress  again ;  try  them  on 
yourself,  arid  right  away." 

"  1 1  Monseigneur,"  said  John,  surprised  at  this  queer  order. 

"Yes,  I  tell  you!  Besides,  there's  no  large  mirror  in  this  beggarly  parlor;  1 
could  not  see  myself  from  head  to  foot;  you  are  just  my  size,  and  I  can  see  them 
better  on  you  1  Come,  be  quick  1 " 

Thereupon  John  felt  a  valet's  last  scruple  at  donning  his  master's  effects. 

"I  beg  pardon,  Monseigneur,"  said  he,  blushing  almost  like  a  virgin ;  and  he  took 
off  his  coat,  vest,  and  pantaloons  and  replaced  them  with  the  new  suit. 

When  he  was  completely  dressed,  the  master,  at  a  distance,  surveyed  him  from 
bead  to  foot  as  if  to  judge  of  the  effect,  as  an  expert  looks  at  a  picture. 


88  The  Ray-Picker  of  Paris. 

"That  fits  well.  .  .  .  except  in  the  neck.     There's  a  slight  wrinkle  there  !" 

And  approaching  as  if  to  raake  sure  of  the  fault,  he  quickly  took  out  his  weapon 
and  fired  full  in  the  face  of  the  poor  John,  who  fell  stiff,  dead  and  disfigured. 

Immediately,  without  loss  of  time,  he  in  turn  threw  off  his  clothes,  dressed  him- 
self in  those  of  the  valet,  put  the  weapon  in  the  right  hand  of  the  dead  man,  and, 
as  he  rang  the  bell,  called  for  help  with  frightful  audacity.  To  the  servants  who 
came  running  in  answer  to  the  hubbub,  he  said  with  sobbing  voice  and  his  hands 
over  his  face  as  if  to  wipe  away  his  tears:  "My  master,  my  poor  master!  He 
has  killed  himself  together  with  his  mistress,  she  in  the  dining-room  and  he 
here.  .  .  .  see!" 

Then,  thanks  to  the  surprise,  the  tumult,  and  the  bewilderment  of  all,  he  left 
the  scene  of  his  double  murder,.applauding  his  success  and  saying  to  himself:  "All 
the  crime  necessary,  but  nothing  superfluous.  ...  I  have  paid  the  hotel  bill." 

And,  to  avoid  having  to  reenter  the  rooms,  he  went  away  with  every  chance  of 
impunity  and  security. 

The  next  day,  in  the  local  columns  of  the  "  Constitutional,"  the  following  para- 
graph appeared,  to  the  great  joy  of  the  Liberal  opposition  : 

It  is  known  at  last  what  has  become  of  one  of  the  highest  livers  of  the  aristocracy  and  pur- 
est blue-bloods  of  the  noble  faubourg,  the  criminal  madman  who,  after  having  dazzled  Paris 
for  so  long,  disappeared  in  an  abyss  of  debts  with  a  charge  of  forgery  hanging  over  him. 
Instead  of  ending  his  life  of  scandal  and  crime  at  Clichy  or  Brest,  this  swindling  courtier, 
this  very  high  and  very  powerful  lord  and  bandit,  the  Duke  Crillon-Garousse,  committed 
suicide  yesterday  with  his  mistress  at  the  end  of  a  Mardi-Gras  breakfast  in  Lent,  in  the  finest 
apartments  in  the  Hotel  Meurice,  Rue  de  Kivoli. 


The  Basket.  89 


CHAPTER  XV. 

BAKOX  HOFFMANN. 

All  is  flux  and  reflux  in  this  life.  In  Paris  especially  "destiny  and  the  floods 
are  changing"  according  to  Beranger.  The  current  of  sympathy  for  the  banker 
Berville  which  the  assassination  of  the  bank  collector  had  created  on  the  first 
day  had  disappeared  on  the  morrow,  or  rather  changed  into  an  exactly  opposite 
current. 

The  world  also  is  a  banker,  demanding  the  rekirn  with  usury  of  the  benevolence 
which  it  lends. 

So  inconstant  opinion  had  already  turned,  and  the  wind  of  injustice  blew  upon 
the  unfortunate. 

A  real  fire  of  straw  is  human  sympathy,  —  all  flame  for  an  instant,  and  only 
ashes  afterwards.  "  Oh,  my  friends,  there  are  no  friends,"  said  the  Greek  proverb. 
"  Heaven  defend  me  from  my  friends,  I  will  defend  myself  from  my  enemies,"  says 
the  English  proverb.  "  Prompt  payments  make  good  friends,"  says  the  French 
proverb. 

Berville's  friends  therefore  were  the  first  to  believe  that  his  misfortune  was  his 
fault,  —  worse,  his  crime;  that  he  had  shown  extreme  imprudence,  bordering  upon 
or  rather  screening  deceit,  theft,  and  murder.  Once  entered  on  this  path,  friend- 
ship and  imagination  never  halted ;  hints  became  charges.  The  story  of  the  Duke 
d'Orleans  procuring  the  assassination  of  the  broker  Pinel  was  recalled.  In  short, 
as  often  happens,  especially  in  France,  where  fancy  is  queen  and  imagination  over- 
powers reason,  to  the  idlers  who  are  weary,  to  the  wicked  who  amuse  themselves, 
and  to  the  fools  who  swallow  everything,  in  a  word,  to  the  changeable,  malignant, 
credulous,  and  sensation-loving  mass,  the  unfortunate  was  the  culprit. 

"  It  is  worse  than  a  crime,  it  is  a  mistake,"  said  Talleyrand.  With  us  failure  is 
always  both  a  mistake  and  a  crime.  It  was  a  Gaul  who  cried :  "A  curse  upon  the 
conquered  1 " 

M.  Berville  had  fallen  a  victim  to  this  fatal  reaction.  Around  him  isolation  had 
succeeded  eager  attentions.  The  rare  faces  which  he  still  saw  grew  longer.  The 
very  stockholders  and  creditors  who  at  first  had  aided  him,  who  had  given  him  a 
footing  and  granted  him  delay,  believing  no  longer  that  he  could  recover  himself, 
were  now  the  first  to  bury  him. 


90  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

It  is  pretended  that  wolves  do  not  eat  each  other.  A  mistake;  they  bite  the 
wounded. 

The  third  day  after  the  disaster  the  banker  and  his  faithful  cashier  were  shut  up 
together  at  au  early  hour  in  the  office  with  which  we  are  familiar,  the  clock  not  re- 
placed. 

Under  the  weight  of  these  charges  which  reached  his  ears  (there  is  always  one 
friend  left  to  bring  good  news),  the  banker  had  no  more  recovered  health  than  for- 
tune ;  the  congested  brain  had  lost  its  natural  clearness,  even  in  the  matter  of  ac- 
counts. Bankruptcy, "  hideous  bankruptcy,"  as  Mirabeau  called  it,  possessed  him, 
showing  him  all  sorts  of  horrible  images,  —  seizure,  execution,  auction,  published 
shame  and  ruin,  house  for  sale,  and  the  hands  of  the  law  upon  his  books  and  upon 
his  honor. 

Now  comatose  and  now  convulsive,  he  spent  whole  hours  in  examining  and 
balancing  columns  of  figures,  which  all  cried  in  his  ears  the  same  word,  failure, 
and  assumed  before  his  eyes  shapes  of  claws  and  teeth  ready  to  tear  and  devour  him. 

"  Enough  of  suffering  I  I  want  no  more  of  it,"  said  he  to  the  honest.  Bremont, 
who  had  just  added  up  the  debits  and  credits.  "There  is  no  ho  pel" 

The  cashier  answered  only  by  a  sad  sign  of  assent. 

"  Delay  would  only  make  the  disaster  w«rse." 

"  Yes,  for  those  who  at  first  held  out  their  hands  now  withdraw  them." 

"  To  borrow  is  not  to  pay,  my  good  Bre'mont,  and  it  is  better  to  refuse.  That 
will  shorten  the  agony  by  a  fortnight.  I  had  rather  leap  out  the  window  than 
tumble  down  stairs.  I  desire  to  end  the  matter  at  once." 

And  he  rose,  as  if  he  had  come  to  a  final  decision. 

"  Put  out  the  announcement  of  suspension.     Go  on." 

Bremont  rose  in  his  turn  and  went  out  in  despair.  His  master's  honor  seemed 
to  him  his  own.  There  are  still  these  poodles  among  those  whom  his  master  called 
knaves. 

Then  the  banker  took  a  box  of  pistols  from  a  drawer,  and  seized  paper  and  pen, 
doubtless  to  write  his  last  directions. 

Just  then  he  heard  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"Who's  there?" 

"I,"  said  a  woman's  voice,  and  Gertrude  entered,  even  paler  than  usual. 

"What  do  you  want,  my  dear  Gertrude?" 

"I  have  just  seen  Bre'mont,  who  informs  me  of  the  suspension  of  payments." 

"  Yes,  the  end  has  come." 

"  But,  my  cousin,  it  is  madness." 

"No,  all  is  over  .  .  .  hopelessly  ruined P' 

"But  could  you  not  delay,  renew?  You  have  had  offers  ....  and  with  an  ar- 
rangement whereby  you  could  pay  in  instalments.  ...  I  have  already  told  you, 
Burville,  that  my  property  is  at  your  disposition." 


The,  Basket.  91 

"  Thank  you,  my  friend,"  he  answered,  affectionately.  "  Thank  you,  it  is  useless, 
insufficient !  You  would  ruin  yourself  without  saving  me!  Keep  all  for  yourself 
and  Camille;  he  will  need  it  after  me." 

"After  you!"  exclaimed  Gertrude,  noticing  the  weapons.  "What  do  you  say? 
What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  Ah  !  Mo  usieur,  why  this  weapon  ?  A  suicide,  great 
God !  You  are  only  unfortunate ;  do  you  want  to  be  guilty  ?  I  say  nothing  to  you 
of  God ;  you  do  not  believe  in  him !  But  your  duty  as  a  father !  Your  poor  child ! " 

"  I  leave  him  to  your  affection ;  he  will  not  lo  se  by  the  change,"  said  he,  with 
genuine  emotion  ;  "go  find  him  .  .  .  no,  you  will  kiss  him  for  me.  .  .  .  Adieu." 

"  I  shall  not  leave  you,  madman." 

"  I  beg  of  you  to  go.  Nothing  will  shake  my  determination.  Life  is  intolerable 
to  me.  Go,  I  tell  you,  unless  you  wish  to  be  a  witness  of  my  death." 

Bremont  came  back,  with  a  card  in  his  hand. 

"  Have  you  put  out  the  placard  ?  "  said  Berville. 

"  Yes,  Monsieur."  answered  Bremont. 

"  You  hear,  cousin,  it  is  settled.     Go  now,  both  of  you." 

"  A  person  who  handed  me  this  card  for  you  desires  to  speak  with  you,"  said 
Bremont. 

"  Another  creditor  who  wants  to  aid  me ;  doubtless  an  impatient  undertaker ! 
Who  is  he?" 

"  A  stranger." 

"  You  know  very  well  that  I  do  not  wish  to  receive  any  one." 

"  I  told  him  so ;  but  he  insisted  obstinately  and  handed  me  his  card  with  a  press- 
ing word  penciled  upon  it." 

" '  Baron  Hoffmann/  "'  the  banker  read  a  loud.  "  I  do  not  know  him  ....  and 
'  on  important  and  pressing  business.'  Important  I  What  is  there  of  importance 
to  me  now?  Send  him  away !  " 

"  Who  knows  ?  "  said  Bremont. 

"  Yes,"  added  Gertrude.     "  I  have  prayed  so  much  to  God  in  your  behalf." 

And  the  banker,  like  the  drowning  man  who  instinctively  catches  at  every  straw, 
said: 

"  Let  him  come  in  ! " 

Gertrude  quickly  covered  the  weapons  with  the  table-cloth. 

Bremont  opened  the  door  and  said : 

"  Come  in,  Monsieur." 

A  man  of  about  thirty  years,  with  a  distinguished  air  and  correct  deportment,  in 
bourgeois  dress  of  white  cravat  and  blue  brass-buttoned  coat,  such  as  the  rich  of  that 
day  wore,  entered  and  bowed,  with  perfect  politeness,  first  to  Gertrude  and  then  to 
the  banker. 

A  general  rule.  From  policy  as  well  as  from  politeness,  if  there  is  a  woman  in  a 
house,  every  visitor  who  wishes  to  be  welcome  should  bow  to  her  before  the  man. 


92  T/ie  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

The  new-comer  seemed  too  courteous  and  too  sagacious  to  violate  this  rule. 

Bremont  made  haste  to  give  him  a  seat. 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence. 

"  To  whom  do  I  owe  the  honor  of  your  visit  ?  "  said  the  banker,  impatiently. 

"Frankly,  Monsieur,  and  saying  nothing  of  sympathy,  I  make  you  this  visit  as 
a  matter  of  self-interest,"  answered  the  unknown. 

And  as  Gertrude  and  Bremont  made  a  show  of  going  out,  he  added : 

"  Oh !  I  can  speak  before  you  all ".  .  .  And  continuing :  "  I  am  a  stranger  to 
you,  unknown  even,  Monsieur  Berville;  but  with  you  it  is  different;  you  are 
known  to  me,  at  least  by  name,  as  you  are  to  all  Paris,  especially  since  your  mis- 
fortune." 

"  Alas  I  yes,  too  well  known  1 "  exclaimed  Berville,  with  a  sigh. 

"But,  Monsieur,  that  which  has  made  you  known  to  me  has  also  aroused  my 
sympathy." 

"  Thank  you,  Monsieur,  for  your  kindness." 

"  And  I  come  to  give  you  a  proof  of  it  ...  by  asking  you  to  accept  it." 

"  What  does  it  concern  ?  "  asked  the  agitated  banker. 

"  It  concerns  your  salvation,  I  think." 

"  My  salvation  ?    How  ?    Speak." 

"  And  my  interest  also,  as  I  have  told  you." 

"  Well,  Monsieur,  pray  go  on." 

"  We  no  longer  live  in  the  golden  age,  I  believe,"  said  the  unknown  with  fine 
irony,  "but  in  the  age  of  paper.  I  am  not  a  knight,  but  a  capitalist.  I  do  not 
come,  I  am  ashamed  to  confess,  purely  to  oblige  you,  Monsieur  Berville.  You  do 
not  see  a  Don  Quixote  before  you,  but  rather  his  matter-of-fact  squire.  In  short, 
I  come  to  you,  I  tell  you  again  quite  plainly,  in  your  interest  and  mine.  I  know 
your  indisputable  honesty  and  shrewdness.  And  if  you  wish  to  take  me  as  a 
partner  in  your  bank  ".  .  .  . 

"  What  1    Monsieur,  in  my  present  situation  you  would  like  to  ".  .  .  . 

"  Have  the  honor  and  advantage  of  aiding  you  and  putting  you  on  your  feet 
again.  I  believe  I  have  nearly  the  amount  that  you  have  lost !  Three  hundred 
thousand  dollars,  the  papers  say,  do  they  not  ?  If,  then,  you  are  willing,  I  will 
share  in  your  losses  in  order  to  share  in  your  profits.  I  put  the  amount  at  your 
disposal  .  .  .  this  very  day." 

It  was  Providence  in  person.    Gertrude  clasped  her  hands. 

"  Monsieur,  such  a  service.  .  .  .  gratitude  stifles  my  voice,"  said  the  banker. 

"No  thanks.  You  owe  me  nothing.  I  do  not  render  you  a  service;  it  is  simply 
a  matter  of  business.  I  repeat,  I  am  your  partner.  Losses  and  profits!" 

The  trio  who  listened  were  mad  with  surprise  and  joy.  They  could  not  recover; 
amazed,  hallucinated,  duped  as  by  a  dream,  scarcely  knowing  whether  this  was 
fraud,  farce,  or  phantasmagoria.  They  were  transported  with  hope.  All  three 
madly  embraced  each  other  in  presence  of  the  stranger. 


2%e  Basket.  93 

Gertrude  especially,  fascinated  by  the  generosity  and  delicacy  of  the  offer,  by 
this  unforeseen,  unhoped-for,  unexpected  aid,  which  shone  the  more  brightly  be 
cause  veiled  by  egoism,  gave  thanks  aloud,  first  to  God  for  this  token  of  grace 
and  then  to  the  baron,  whose  title,  of  course,  she  had  remembered. 

The  cashier  was  also  charmed,  although  less  piously. 

As  for  the  banker,  who  had  at  first  cried :  "  Saved  1 "  and  who  had  accepted  every 
thing  suddenly,  without  even  an  idea  of  a  reference  or  even  of  reflection,  as  the 
falling  man  grasps  a  branch,  the  stroke  of  joy  was  too  much  for  him  after  that  of 
pain.  His  cheeks  became  purple,  and  the  reddish  petecchise  which  spotted  them 
became  violet.  He  had  only  time  to  cry  to  the  cashier: 

"        e  down  the  placard  1 " 

And  he  fell  back  on  his  chair,  served  with  a  second  summons  by  the  great 
creditor. 

But  there  was  no  immediate  execution.  Death  still  granted  a  delay,  long  enough 
at  least  to  allow  everything  to  be  regulated  according  to  the  desire  of  the  baron 
and  the  banker. 

M.  Berville  was  on  his  feet  again  in  time  to  establish  the  baron  in  his  place  as 
his  partner  and  thus  meet  his  obligations,  restore  honor  to  his  business,  avoid  bank- 
ruptcy, and  save  his  credit,  his  reputation,  and  his  bank,  which  then  became  the 
bank  of  Berville,  Hoffmann  &  Co. 

The  baron,  thanks  to  the  aid  of  the  diligent  cashier  and  to  his  own  aptitude,  in 
twenty-four  hours  became  familiar  with  the  business  and  was  initiated  into  the 
secrets  of  the  ledger  as  well  as  of  the  note-book.  Man  learns  nothing  so  readily  as 
robbery.  One  would  have  said  that  he  had  had  all  his  life  no  other  merit. 

"  He  will  be  worth  two  Bervilles,"  thought  Bremont. 

In  his  partner,  then,  the  banker  had  found  at  least  his  equal.  All  was  saved, — 
the  bank  and  honor.  The  proverb  says ;  "  As  one  makes  his  bed,  he  must  lie  in  it." 
Let  us  add :  Each  finds  his  honor  where  he  left  it.  The  banker  had  put  his  in  a 
bag !  He  found  it  there,  without  asking  too  particularly  what  bag.  Money  has  no 
odor.  Non  olet,  as  Vespasian  said,  an  emperor  whose  name  on  this  account  has 
been  given  we  know  to  what. 

But  if  the  baron  had  succeeded  in  the  bank,  he  had  no  less  succeeded  in  Ger- 
trude's heart.  He  had  won  that  likewise,  at  one  stroke. 

He  had  literally  bewitched  her.  His  distinction,  his  courtesy,  his  gallantry  even, 
the  singularity  of  his  intervention  and  of  his  name,  and  above  all  his  title  of  baron, 
had  subjugated  her,  taken  her  by  main  force,  like  an  irresistible  rape.  Love  had 
entered  this  weak  heart  through  two  of  its  broadest  doors,  —  gratitude  and  pride. 
Everything  comes  to  those  who  know  how  to  wait,  who  can  wait.  Finally,  like 
Archimedes,  she  had  found. 

In  fact,  the  banker's  partner  had  confessed  to  Berville  that  it  was  with  the  keen- 
est interest  that  he  had  seen  Mile.  Gertrude  in  society,  at  an  evening  party  given 


94  The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 

by  Laffitte;  which  explained  to  the  banker  the  baron's  chivalrous  generosity. 
Hoffmann  had  even  added  that  he  would  be  happy  to  be  connected  with  the  house 
by  one  tie  more  and  to  rise  from  the  bank  to  the  family. 

Consequently,  feeling  that  he  was  about  to  d  ie,  Gertrude's  cousin  had  summoned 
her  to  his  death-bed,  had  confided  to  her  the  intentions  of  his  partner,  had  urged 
superior  considerations  and  pressing  circum  stances,  and,  in  the  name  of  all  the 
proprieties,  the  interest  of  the  banking-house,  the  future  of  his  son  of  whom  she 
was  to  be  sole  guardian,  under  the  same  roof  as  a  bachelor,  had  adjured  her  to  ac- 
cept the  baron's  offers  were  it  only  out  of  gratitude  for  past  services  and  in  the 
hope  of  services  to  come,  saying,  with  all  t  he  emotion  of  which  he  was  capable  in 
his  last  hour,  that  he  thanked  her  in  advanc  e  for  her  devotion  to  his  interests  and 
that  he  should  die  happy  if,  by  the  sacrific  e  of  her  liberty, 'she  should  assure  the 
future  of  the  family  and  the  honor  of  the  house. 

So  much  effort  was  unnecessary  to  victory.  The  fortress  was  captured,  and 
made  a  show  of  defence  only  to  surrender  more  gracefully.  Age  had  undermined 
the  walls,  and,  the  prayer  of  the  dying  man  aiding,  without  further  discussion  of 
financial  conditions,  money  lifting  all  obstacles,  granting  all  dispensations,  delays, 
banns,  and  publicity  ("there  are  ways  of  compromising  with  heaven"),  and  the 
religious  marriage  being  of  the  most  importance  to  Gertrude,  reserving  the  civil 
ceremony  for  a  later  date,  the  marriage  of  love  and  interest  between  Baron  Hoff- 
mann and  Gertrude  de  Berville  was  therefore  resolved  upon  in  presence  of  the  dying 
cousin. 

In  this  forced  precipitation  of  marriage  and  burial  one  upon  the  other,  there  was 
something  rational  no  doubt,  but  also  somet  hing  forbidding  which  oppressed  the 
heart  of  the  old  cashier  and,  though  possibly  in  a  less  degree,  that  of  the  old  maid 
as  well. 

The  marriage  took  place  at  Saint-Roch,  at  night,  by  special  permission,  and  con- 
sequently at  greater  cost  and  profit  to  the  priest,  Monsieur  the  abbe  Ventron. 

From  that  time,  then,  the  Berville-IIoffmann  fortune  and  family  wereindissolubly 
united  and  made  but  one  for  life  and  death. 

On  the  same  evening,  in  spite  of  all  the  art  of  the  great  physician  of  the  opposi- 
tion, the  famous  Doctor  Dubois,  a  third  and  last  attack  of  apoplexy  supervened; 
and  cousin  Hoffmann  closed  the  eyes  of  cousin  Berville,  who  died  in  the  odor  of 
glory  and  peace. 

And  the  next  morning  the  "  Constitutionnel "  announced  the  death  and  funeral 
of  the  Liberal  banker,  devoting  to  him  a  dithyrambic  obituary  in  marked  contrast 
with  that  of  the  noble  Duke  de  Crillon-Garousse. 


The  Basket  95 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

AT  8AINT-ROCH. 

Twenty-four  hours  later,  at  noon,  the  bell  of  Saint-Roch  tolled  a  prolonged  knell. 
The  front  of  the  church  was  hung,  from  cornices  to  base,  with  black  draperies 
sprinkled  with  silver  tears,  and  a  large  escutcheon  bearing  for  device  a  capital  B, 
also  of  silver. 

In  front  of  the  steps  stood  a  file  of  mourning  coaches  similarly  caparisoned,  es- 
cutcheoned,  and  lettered,  official  coaches  of  the  family  and  the  clergy,  followed  by 
private  equipages  in  black  and  crape  liveries  even  to  the  horses  and  whips. 

Around  was  a  crowd  of  curious  people  who  watched  the  spectacle,  mourners  who 
laughed  at  their  godsend,  undertaker's  employees  indulging  in  merry  jokes  over 
this  fat  corpse,  —  in  short,  all  the  grief  of  pomp,  all  the  formal  sorrow,  all  the 
dismal  and  savage,  grotesque  and  lugubrious  ostentation  of  first-class  Christian 
burials. 

Let  us  go  with  the  crowd  into  this  Catholic  temple,  Pagan — I  beg  Jupiter's  par- 
don— Jesuitic  in  its  architecture. 

Here,  in  fact,  we  no  longer  find  Gothic  art  with  its  fugues  and  pinnacles,  as  at 
Notre-Dame;  or  even  the  art  of  the  Renaissance  still  so  spiritual  in  its  juvenile 
grace,  as  at  Saint-Eustache ;  or  even  the  stiff  majesty  of  the  false  art  of  the  Great 
King,  as  at  Saint-Sulpice.  No,  we  find  the  senile  sensuality  of  Louise  XV,  carnal 
and  pietistic  art,  Pompadour  and  lewd  art,  with  hearts  of  Jesus  and  Mary  spitted, 
flaming  like  fire-pots,  larded  like  calves'  livers,  and  garlanded  with  roses  and  rib- 
bons like  the  newly-married. 

In  this  temple,  where  the  services  are  no  more  Christian  than  the  architecture, 
and  which  is  so  fittingly  dedicated  to  the  God  who  knows  not  where  to  lay  his 
head,  to  the  Ecce  Homo  whose  poor  are  members  and  whose  rich  are  accursed,  to 
the  carpenter's  son  who  was  born  on  the  straw  of  a  manger  and  who  died  on  the 
wood  of  a  cross,  there  were  then  in  progress  two  funeral  as  well  as  two  baptismal 
services. 

One  baptism  in  cold  water  for  an  elect  of  heaven,  a  child  of  the  poor;  another 
in  tepid  water  for  an  outcast  of  heaven,  a  child  of  the  rich. 

As  for  the  two  burials,  they  offered  no  less  a  contrast  in  their  solemnity. 

For  one,  in  the  centre  of  the  broad  nave,  before  the  divine  altar  and  before  the 


96  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

evangelical  pulpit,  stood  an  immense  catafalque  draped  with  Lyons  velvet,  of- 
namented  with  plumes  and  silver  fringes  and  tassels,  and  lighted  by  a  triple  row 
of  tapers,  a  mass  of  silk  and  fire.  Beneath  this  splendid  dome,  in  the  midst  of  in- 
cense, between  the  banner  and  the  cross  veiled  with  black,  God  himself  in  mourn- 
ing for  man,  rested,  in  a  double  coffin  of  oak  and  lead,  an  embalmed  body,  covered 
with  a  pall  of  damask  and  a  shower  of  crowns,  wreaths,  branches,  and  bouquets. 

Around  this  monument  of  human  vanity  and  pious  commercialism  stood  the 
relatives,  the  friends  of  the  family,  ultramundane  society,  thoughtless,  frivolous, 
wearied,  and  absent-minded,  men  and  women,  gathered  there  out  of  propriety,  es- 
pecially to  see  each  other  and  well  acquitting  themselves  of  their  task,  thus  paying 
their  respects  to  each  other  much  more  than  to  the  deceased;  black  coats  and 
black  dresses  struggling  to  surpass  in  luxury  of  mourning,  rubies  giving  place  to 
diamonds. 

At  the  head  of  the  coffin,  more  hypocritically  if  not  more  religiously,  stood  the 
clerical  officiants,  first  the  choristers,  singers  of  the  Devil  as  well  as  of  God,  in  the 
morning  at  church,  in  the  evening  at  the  opera;  then  the  priests,  and,  first  and 
fattest  of  all,  Monsieur  the  parish  priest,  the  abbe  Ventron,  though  not  thoughtful, 
yet  profoundly  absorbed,  calculating  and  storing  in  advance  in  his  heart  the  pro- 
duct of  these  obsequies  before  putting  it  into  the  poor-box. 

Breviary  in  one  hand,  aspergillum  in  the  other,  dipped  in  a  silver  holy-water 
basin,  he  whimperingly  and  with  an  air  of  grief  intoned,  in  a  tongue  which  not 
one  believer  in  tenmnderstood,  in  Latin,  the  De  Profundis,  which  the  opera-singers 
sang  in  chorus  without  understanding  it  any  more  than  the  listeners. 

An  odd,  a  barbarous  thing,  that  priests  should  sing  when  others  weep. 

What  said  this  De  Profundis  in  Latin?  Domine  ad  te  clamavi,  exaudi  me!  In 
English ;  From  the  depths  of  the  abyss,  O  Lord,  I  have  cried  unto  you,  hear  me  1 

Ahl  if  this  fat  priest  of  a  lean  God;  if  this  priest  of  his  Christ  had  been  faithful 
to  the  human  idea  of  the  fast  sans-culntte ;  if  he  had  himself  understood  what  he 
sang;  if  he  had  touched,  beneath  its  mystical  form,  the  real  meaning  of  this  psalm ; 
if  he  had  applied  to  the  facts  of  this  world  the  chimeras  of  the  other ;  if  he  had 
grasped  the  actual  significance  of  this  recourse  of  man  to  God,  of  earth  to  heaven, 
of  the  fallen,  of  the  damned,  to  their  lord  and  master;  if  he  had  not  had,  like  his 
golden  crucifix,  like  these  metal  idols,  insensible,  blind,  and  deaf,  eyes  not  to  see, 
oculos  habent,  ears  not  to  hear,  and  a  heart  not  to  feel;  if  he  had  not  had  only  a 
stomach  and  an  abdomen,  like  the  whole  egoistic  and  vain  crowd  that  surrounded 
him  without  listening  to  him,  —  what  would  he  have  heard,  understood,  and  felt? 

In  this  De  Profundis,  that  psalm  of  psalms,  that  innermost  and  most  intense  cry 
of  Christian  faith,  that  summary,  that  most  fervent  outpouring  of  all  the  hopes 
and  all  the  fears  of  the  Middle  Ages,  that  most  complete  and  moving  hymn  of  spi- 
ritual sorrow,  a  true  canticle  of  the  miseries  of  the  human  soul,  a  sublime  invoca- 
tion of  the  believer  to  his  God,  he  would  have  heard  other  lamentations,  perceived 
other  sufferings,  seen  other  abysses. 


The  Basket.  9? 

He  would  have  felt,  beneath  ideal  sorrows  real  sorrows,  beneath  imaginary  lim- 
bos the  present,  living  torments  of  an  earthly  hell. 

He  would  have  heard,  no  longer  the  clamor  of  souls  anxious  about  their  salva- 
tion on  high,  but  of  men  anxious  about  their  life  here  below.  He  would  have  seen 
the  modern  Job  stretched  upon  his  muck-heap.  He  would  have  heard  beside  the 
body  of  Dives  thousands  of  Lazaruses  crying  from  the  depths  of  the  abyss :  De 
Profundis,  O  Lord,  hear  us ! 

And  in  this  monster  chorus  of  the  victims  of  the  rich,  in  this  infernal  harmony 
of  the  accursed,  so  infinite,  so  general,  and  so  continuous  that  it  is  no  longer  even 
heard,  he  would  have  distinguished  the  cries  of  the  shop,  the  hospital,  and  the  pri- 
son, the  voices  of  men  crying :  "  O  Lord,  we  have  given  you  our  arms,  our  sweat, 
our  blood  ....  and  we  have  no  clothes,  no  shelter,  no  food  1  O  Lord,  hear  us ! " 
the  voices  of  women  crying  :  "  We  have  reared  our  sons  for  your  defence  and  our 
daughters  for  your  pleasure  ....  and  we  are  alone  in  weeping  over  our  dead  sons 
and  our  dishonored  daughters.  O  Lord,  have  pity  on  us!"  And  among  these 
feminine  voices  the  youngest  saying :  "  Our  hearts,  made  to  love,  have  not  known 
the  holy  joys  of  love,  dried  up  in  poverty  or  spoiled  in  debauchery.  O  Lord,  have 
pity!  hear  us!"  Then  the  wails  of  children  crushed  in  their  flower,  and  the  sighs 
and  groans  of  the  aged,  alone  and  in  despair,  no  longer  even  crying:  "O  Lord, 
hear  us ! " 

Yes,  he  would  have  listened  to  all  these  growing  clamors,  rising  incessantly  en 
masse,  like  the  dead  in  Michael  Angelo's  "  Last  Judgment." 

He  would  have  seen  these  prayers,  left  unanswered,  change  into  gnashings  of 
teeth;  these  laments  into  threats;  these  sorrows  into  furies;  these  cries  of  misery 
into  cries  of  revolt,  into  a  song  of  war;  the  "Marseillaise"  of  despair,  an  immense 
and  terrible  chorus  louder  than  thunder,  animating,  guiding  "avenging  hearts 
and  arms " ;  the  cry  of  the  Revolution  once  more  starting  forth  to  break  sceptres 
and  crosses,  crowns  and  mitres,  altar,  throne,  and  strong-box;  to  force  all  the  Bas- 
tilles left  to  be  taken, — those  of  the  master  and  the  priest  as  well  as  those  of  the 
king;  to  scale  the  Louvre,  Heaven,  and  the  Bank,  and  to  bury  the  Lord,  in  his 
turn,  beneath  their  ruins. 

That  is  what,  instead  of  singing  in  Latin,  the  officiating  priest  of  Saint-Roch, 
Monsieur  the  abbe  Ventron,  had  he  remembered  the  love-feasts  of  the  catacombs, 
would  have  said  in  good  French  to  his  faithful  living  beside  the  body  and  soul  of 
his  faithful  dead. 

At  the  same  time  that  the  rich  parishioner  occupied  the  centre  of  the  nave,  in 
another  direction,  thanks  to  Bremont,  under  the  lowest  wing  of  the  same  church, 
at  a  side  entrance,  stood,  as  if  banished,  on  a  trestle  almost  bare,  a  coffin  made  of 
four  badly-joined  deal-boards  scarcely  covered  with  serge,  between  two  dimly- 
burning  candles ;  and  beside  it  a  poor  widow  on  her  knees,  perfect  image  of  the 
Mater  dolorosa,  holding  in  her  arms  her  infant  bathed  in  her  tears. 


98  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

A  single  priest,  a  sub-vicar,  a  young  graduate  of  Saint-Sulpice,  freshly  tonsured, 
bran-new  from  the  seminary,  mumbled  the  prayer  of  the  dead,  without  organ  or 
incense,  cross  or  banner,  the  aspergillum  not  even  moist,  in  front  of  this  blonde 
widow  as  beautiful  as  Mary,  at  whom  he  gave  covert  glances  and  not  with  the  eyes 
of  Saint  John. 

The  services  over,  the  two  coffins  were  taken  out:  one  by  the  main  door,  the 
other  by  the  side  door;  one  placed  in  a  hearse  drawn  by  six  horses,  the  other  on 
the  hearse  of  the  poor  with  two  bearers;  the  one  as  it  went  by  forcing  the  other  to 
give  place  to  it. 

The  one  proceeding  pompously  to  the  family  vault,  a  palace  of  pride  for  the  re- 
ceipt of  stolen  goods,  which  protests  by  its  marble  against  human  equality;  the 
other  returning  simply  to  the  common  grave,  to  the  bosom  of  natal  earth,  that 
equality-loving  mother  who  recalls  all  her  sons,  rich  or  poor,  to  unity. 

The  one  escorted  by  a  throng  of  invited  guests  in  dress  coats  talking  in  a  worldly 
way  of  the  late  banker  Berville ;  the  other  followed  only  by  the  weeping  widow  of 
his  collector  and  a  friend  in  a  blouse,  a  humble  person,  who  had  been  unwilling  to 
set  foot  in  the  church,  Jean,  the  rag-picker. 


END  OF  PART  FIRST. 


The  Strong-Box.  99 


PART  SECOND 

THE 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  STUDENTS. 

Twelve  years  have  passed  since  Baron  Hoffmann  became  a  partner  in  the  Berville 
bank  and  a  member  of  the  Berville  family. 

The  strong-box  and  the  hearth  have  changed  their  location  for  the  better,  from 
the  comfortable  Rue  du  Louvre  to  the  fashionable  Faubourg  Saint-Honore,  from 
the  Berville  mansion  to  the  Hotel  Hoffmann. 

The  bank  is  no  longer  simply  bourgeois;  it  has  become  royal. 

The  citizen  king  has  replaced  the  legitimate  king.  The  tricolor  floats  over  the 
Tuileries  instead  of  the  white  flag.  The  hammer  pawned  by  the  workingman  at  the 
Mount  of  Piety  was  redeemed  in  time  to  crush  the  royal  punaises  on  the  escutcheon 
of  the  Bourbons.  That  whose  coming  the  abbe  Ventron  neither  heard  nor  saw 
in  his  De  Profundis  has  arrived.  At  least  the  reign  of  the  Third  Estate  is  here. 
The  bourgeois,  thanks  to  the  people,  has  definitively  conquered  the  priest  and  the 
noble  and  then  united  with  them  to  hold  more  firmly  at  the  bottom  of  the  abyss, 
in  the  ergastulum,  the  disappointed  slave  who  is  now  stirring  on  his  own  account 
and  claims  his  sovereignty. 

In  beginning  this  second  part  of  our  work  we  are  on  the  way  to  the  democratic 
revolution  of  February,  as  in  the  first  part  we  were  on  the  way  to  the  bourgeois  re- 
volution of  July.  Now  the  whole  financial  world  is  royalist.  The  opposition  has 
passed  to  the  government,  cash  and  baggage.  The  strong-box  is  for  and  with  the 
throne  and  altar,  with  a  view  to  controlling  them  or  at  least  balancing  them.  In 
a  word,  it  is  the  constitutional  regime. 

At  present  Baron  Hoffmann  swims  in  wealth,  a  shark  of  the  high  seas;  one  of  the 
greatest  financiers  in  Paris,  a  representative  of  the  highest  monetary  circles;  the 


100  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

first  metallic  and  political  personage  on  change.  His  clients  are  the  king,  the  peers, 
the  deputies,  the  bishops,  and  all  the  merchant-princes  of  the  Rue  du  Sentier, — 
client-accomplices.  His  dupes  are  all  the  rest.  He  is  the  banker  of  the  Church 
and  of  the  State,  contrives  loans,  meddles  in  corporations,  is  necessary  to  the  Trea- 
sury, useful  to  enterprise,  and  fatal  to  labor.  In  short,  he  is  a  high-flying,  broad- 
winged  bird  of  prey,  an  eagle  hovering  in  the  empyrean  of  the  Bourse  and  plucking 
all  the  sparrows  within  reach  of  his  beak,  eating  them  legally  without  making 
them  cry. 

His  hotel  is  tastefully  sumptuous,  with  none  of  the  coarse  ostentation  of  the  par- 
venu; his  conduct  is  as  observant  of  form  as  Bridoison  could  wish.  In  business  ex- 
act and  punctual,  marking  the  hours  like  a  dial;  a  man  of  the  world  undoubtedly, 
but  orderly;  proper  in  his  life  and  correct  in  his  morals;  a  model  husband  as  well 
as  a  model  banker;  as  attentive  to  his  wife  as  to  his  cash;  irreproachable,  in  every 
way  admirable. 

His  predecessor,  then,  could  rest  in  peace.  He  had  left  everything  in  good 
hands.  All  was  safe,  and  Bre'mont  was  not  mistaken.  .  .  .  Hoffmann  was  worth 
two  Bervilles  as  the  head  of  the  bank ;  as  the  head  of  the  family,  in  Gertrude's 
eyes,  he  was  worth  many  more. 

From  the  first  days  of  her  married  life  this  prodigious  husband  had  surrounded 
Gertrude  with  attentions  and  deferences  which  had  outlived  the  rays  of  the  honey- 
moon. He  seemed  always  the  lover  of  his  wife  and  courted  her  like  a  sweetheart. 
Bouquets,  gifts,  new  books,  boxes  on  first  nights,  promenades  in  the  park,  he  con- 
tinued all  the  pleasures,  amusements,  and  surprises  which  are  so  delightful  to 
young  brides  and  with  which  old  husbands  dispense  so  quickly  for  the  benefit  of 
their  mistresses  .  .  .  and  the  lovers  of  their  wives. 

Entering  into  Gertrude's  tastes,  he  at  the  outset  had  her  freed  from  her  provincial 
domestics  and  attended  by  grand  Parisian  livery-servants,  those  trained  Frontins 
who  address  their  masters  only  in  the  third  person,  serve  them  only  with  gloved 
hands,  and  offer  them  their  letters,  as  formerly  the  keys  of  Paris  were  offered  to 
the  king,  only  on  silver  plates. 

He  had  even  gone  so  far  in  the  way  of  elegance  as  to  retire — on  a  pension,  of 
course  —  the  simple  cashier  from  Berri,  too  co  mmon  for  a  baroness,  and  replace  the 
familiar  Bremont  by  a  cashier,  if  not  more  honest,  at  least  more  modern  and  more 
deferent  ial. 

Thus  all  things,  from  top  to  bottom,  were  made  new  in  the  house  and  in  the 
best  of  possible  banks,  around  the  former  old  maid,  Mile.  Gertrude  de  Berville, 
now  Mme.  the  baroness  Hoffmann,  by  the  grace  of  God,  whom  she  thanked  evening 
and  morning. 

In  this  general  change  which  time  had  worked  in  men  and  things  the  baroness 
had  grown  old  faster  than  the  baron,  in  spite,  or  rather  perhaps  because,  of  the 
satisfaction  of  all  her  ambitions  and  passions,  nobility  and  devotion,  vanity  and 


The  Strony-Bvx.  101 

faith,  fortune  and  power.  She  had  lived  too  fast,  so  to  speak,  in  the  realization  of 
all  her  dreams;  for  all  her  wishes  had  been  met,  save  one,  —  she  had  had  no  chil- 
dren; and  on  this  account  her  health  was  not  all  that  could  be  desired. 

The  human  organism  has  duties,  failure  in  which  is  accompanied  by  penalties 
and  the  sanction  of  which  is  health,  just  as  its  pleasure  and  comfort  are  propor- 
tional to  its  functions,  the  joys  of  feasting  being  designed  for  the  preservation  of 
the  individual,  and  the  delights  of  love  for  the  reproduction  of  the  race. 

Gertrude,  then,  had  suffered  the  greatest  physical  and  moral  privation  possible 
to  a  woman,  the  privation  of  maternal  happiness.  .  .  .  matrem  filiorum  Icetantem. 

Had  the  old  maid  killed  the  mother?  Was  it  her  husband's  fault  or  her  own? 
In  either  case  she  had  so  far  longed  in  vain  for  this  happiness,  and  had  envied  the 
gift  of  English  queens  and  codfish,  —  fecundity.  And  her  repressed  passion  had 
altered  her  humors,  though  not  her  temper,  which  was  always  even  in  God. 

Fortunately  her  husband,  through  a  rare  solicitude  regarding  his  wife's  condi- 
tion, had  made  her  a  present,  on  one  of  her  birthdays,  of  a  large  child,  his  own 
natural  daughter,  six  years  old,  whom  he  had  recognized  under  the  name  Claire 
Hoffmann,  and  whom  Gertrude,  for  want  of  a  better  and  despairing  of  her  case,  on 
the  advice  of  her  doctor  and  her  spiritual  director,  had  adopted  with  enthusiasm, 
love,  and  piety. 

Seeing  always  the  hand  of  Heaven  in  everything  that  came  into  her  life,  whether 
good  or  evil,  she  had  again  thanked  it  for  this  new  gift,  received  also  from  the  very 
man  whom  she  adored  next  to  God.  So  she  had  accepted  without  hesitation.  .  .  . 
for  to  do  otherwise  would  have  been  to  blame  God  himself.  Without  reserve  she 
had  bestowed  upon  Claire  the  treasure  of  love  buried  in  her  heart. 

Her  husband's  daughter  she  had  made  her  own  child.  She  had  made  up  for 
lost  time  with  a  will. 

She  had  reared  her  with  completely  maternal  affection  and  application.  The 
child  is  the  mother's  doll.  She  had  spoiled  it,  formed  and  fashioned  it  in  her  own 
image,  nourished  it  on  her  faith,  imbued  it  with  her  ideas,  brought  it  up  in  her 
principles,  the  good  principles,  and  educated  it  in  her  prejudices  in  order  that  in 
the  child  she  might  live  again,  according  to  the  la\y  of  nature.  And  when  the 
time  had  come  to  teach  her  and  the  child  had  grown  into  a  young  girl,  painfully 
she  parted  with  her  to  put  her  in  the  principal  religious  and  royalist  boarding- 
school  in  Paris,  the  conveut-school  des  Oiseaux. 

Thence  Claire  had  emerged  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  worthy  of  her  mother  by 
adoption,  having  profited  by  the  lessons  of  the  pious  teachers,  aristocratic  and  de- 
vout to  the  tips  of  her  nails,  filled  with  the  false  ideal  which  animated  Gertrude 
and  which  was  to  make  the  daughter  similar  to  the  mother  and  dear  to  her,  the 
one  differing  from  the  other  only  as  Parisian  levity  differs  from  provincial  solidity. 

As  for  the  young  Berville,  he  offered  a  most  perfect  contrast  to  Claire  under  the 
same  roof.  .  .  .  and,  if  opposites  attract  each  other,  Camille  and  Claire  should  have 
been  united  body  and  soul.  Yet  they  were  the  two  poles. 


102  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

The  young  Cauiille  had  grown  from  a  school -boy  to  a  student  under  the  guardian- 
ship nominally  of  his  cousin  but  really  of  the  bar  on,  his  guardian's  guardian,  who 
had  been  as  indulgent  with  him  as  Gertrude  had  been  with  Claire. 

Camille  had  remained  the  same,  as  nature  had  made  him;  or  rather,  he  had 
brought  himself  up  under  the  surviving  and  powerful  guardianship  of  his  mother, 
he  had  developed  under  this  invisible  but  effective  influence  the  wholesome  germ 
which  she  had  transmitted  from  her  heart  to  that  of  her  son. 

The  "stubborn"  child  was  now  the  free  man.  Grace  and  power,  gentleness  and 
frankness,  he  seemed  like  a  Spartan  or  Athenian  youth  detached  from  the  metopes 
of  the  Parthenon  just  attaining  the  age  of  manhood  and  transplanted  into  Paris. 

Brought  up  in  the  English  fashion  by  the  method  of  toughening  introduced  by 
Lord  Seymour,  nicknamed  Lord  Arsouille*  by  the  effeminate,  practised  in  boxing, 
rowing,  fencing,  every  branch  of  gymnastics,  his  friends  called  him  Iron  Arm  and 
Golden  Heart. 

Too  intelligent  to  be  only  an  athlete,  too  generous  to  be  only  a  banker,  too  moral 
to  be  only  a  voluptuary ;  in  spite  of  all  the  stimulants  of  fortune,  the  indulgences 
of  his  relatives,  the  examples  of  his  friends;  in  spite  of  the  faults  and  follies  com- 
mon at  his  age ;  helped  rather  than  hindered  by  his  wealth  and  the  connivance  of 
his  guardian ;  although  tempted  undoubtedly  like  others  (for  the  beast  always  un- 
derlies the  man),  he  had  kept  himself  pure,  stainless,  and  without  reproach.  Ou 
the  verge  of  a  bad  action,  he  stopped  short  at  the  recollection  of  his  mother's 
word:  "Remember!" 

Like  her,  in  sympathy  with  the  people,  he  had  thrown  himself  headlong  into  the 
Revolution.  The  Liberal  movement  had  become  republican.  What  good  there 
•was  left  in  the  upstart  bourgeoisie,  the  young  element,  the  student,  still  fraternised 
with  the  workingman ;  study  prepared  the  way  for  and  always  guided  labor.  It 
was  the  heroic  age  of  the  Latin  Quarter.  The  tradition  was  not  yet  broken,  and 
the  union  between  the  head  and  the  arm  of  France  was  still  in  existence.  Alas ! 
Why  does  it  exist  no  longer? 

Carbonaro  with  Mazzini,  Jacobin  with  Carrel,  chief  of  the  Students'  Group  in  the 
secret  society  La  Marianne^  and  a  point  of  union  between  the  laborers  and  the 
medical  students,  like  the  Greek  Achilles  he  drove  his  two  coursers  abreast,  plea- 
sure and  duty,  letting  neither  outstrip  the  other,  jolted  sometimes,  but  never  upset, 
always  erect  in  his  chariot  in  the  struggle  of  life,  in  a  word,  balanced. 

He  went  also  with  the  same  ardor  from  the  club  to  the  gambling-house,  spend- 
ing the  morning  with  Cujas,  the  evening  with  Moliere,  the  night  with  Marianne 
or  Lisette,  betting  on  his  horse,  conspiring  for  the  Republic,  applauding  Taglioni, 
and  singing :  "  The  kings  shall  never  invade  France !  " 

Nothing  human,  nothing  Parisian,  was  foreign  to  him.     A  man  of  struggle  and 

*  French  slang  for  the  type  of  man  which  English  slang  describes  as  the  "  tough."  —  Translator. 


The  Strong-Box.  103 

joy,  united  with  the  flower  of  society,  of  the  press,  of  thought,  of  action,  leading  a 
four-in-hand  life,  prodigal  of  himself  and  his  possessions,  of  his  strength  and  his 
purse,  pushed  on  rather  than  held  back  by  the  baron,  who  did  him  the  excessive 
favor  and  doubtful  kindness  of  giving  him  more  money  than  advice,  himself  initi- 
ating him  in  the  world  to  take  the  rust  off,  as  he  said,  to  guide  him  in  case  of  need, 
to  make  him  a  man  in  his  own  image,  in  short,  to  make  him  his  son-in-law. 

Gertrude  Jiad  other  views  in  regard  to  their  daughter  Claire;  and  Claire  in  this 
matter  thought  with  Gertrude  and  not  with  her  father. 

She  had  even  confided  to  her  mother  by  adoption  that  she  could  never  love  Ca- 
mille;  that  she  would  refuse  to  marry  him;  that  she  loved  another,  the  brother  of 
a  school-friend,  the  Count  de  Frinlair,  whom  she  had  seen  for  the  first  time  in  the 
parlor  of  the  convent  where  he  visited  his  sister. 

The  title  of  count  had  naturally  had  its  usual  effect,  had  exercised  its  magic 
power  over  the  mind  of  the  baroness  ....  and  Claire,  who  knew  and  shared  her 
mother's  weakness,  had  not  failed  to  plead  her  cousin's  aggravating  qualities, — 
his  impious  republican  opinions  and  corresponding  conduct. 

After  this  confidence,  the  aid  of  the  mother  was  irreversibly  gained  by  the 
daughter  against  the  father  for  the  love  of  God  and  in  the  name  of  the  king. 

So  one  morning  at  the  Hotel  Hoffmann,  when  the  family  was  breakfasting,  this 
tete-a-tete  of  three  took  place. 

The  baron,  wearing  an  air  of  pleasantry  tinctured  with  gravity,  was  seated  be- 
tween his  wife,  who  was  growing  more  and  more  bloodless  and  gloomy,  and  his 
daughter  Claire,  in  all  the  brilliancy  of  her  youth  and  beauty,  superb  youth  and 
masculine  beauty,  the  oval  of  her  face  a  little  squared,  her  black  eyes  a  little  heavy, 
her  straight  eyebrows  a  little  pronounced  and  having  a  tendency  to  meet,  her  fore- 
head flat  but  high,  her  nose  arched,  her  chin  pointed,  under  lips  that  were  pink 
but  full  and  downy,  showing  teeth  that  were  white  but  large,  all  the  signs  of  a 
powerful  race,  all  the  features  of  an  excessively  developed  woman  or  a  partially 
developed  man. 

"Where  is  your  favorite  this  morning,  my  ward,  the  worthless  fellow?"  said 
Gertrude.  "If  he  had  the  slightest  intention  or  even  attention  toward  Claire,  he 
would  be  here,"  she  continued,  shrewdly ;  "  but  no,  he  takes  after  his  mother,  not 
after  the  Bervilles,  —  an  atheist,  a  democrat,  and  consequently  a  libertine.  In  vain 
do  I  pray  for  him;  he  is  incorrigible!  It  runs  in  the  blood;  let  him  ruin  himself 
alone,  it  is  enough  and  too  much.  Claire  is  right  in  not  wanting  him  for  a  hus- 
band; and  I  want  him  still  less  for  a  son-in-law.  The  young  Count  de  Frinlair, 
he  suits  me  1 " 

The  baron  tossed  his  head,  and  the  baroness  nevertheless  continued : 

" What  a  difference !  What  deportment!  What  propriety!  What  exemplary 
conduct!  We  see  him,  Claire  and  I,  every  Sunday,  accompanying  his  sister  to 
Saiut-Roch.  But  Camille !  Look  you,  my  friend,  his  opinions  and  his  conduct 
would  surely  expose  our  daughter  to  a  premature  widowhood." 


104  The,  Hay-Picker  of  Paris. 

"Your  solicitude  011  her  account  makes  you  unjust  to  him." 
"  No,  and  it  is  your  fault.  You  have  wished  him  as  he  is." 
"But,  my  dear,  I  could  not  put  Camille  in  a  convent,  as  you  put  Claire.  His 
mother  would  have  risen  from  her  grave.  I  love  your  cousin  as  well  as  you  love 
my  daughter,  and  I  have  no  more  desire  to  play  the  step-father  than  have  you  to 
play  the  step-mother.  Camille  is  not  a  young  girl,  and  the  period  of  youth  has  to 
be  passed  through.  Young  scamps  make  good  husbands.  He  will  consent  to  what 
I  want  of  him  because  I  consent  to  what  he  wants;  and  when  he  has  lived  in  this 
way  long  enough,  which  will  be  soon  if  he  keeps  up  his  present  rate,  then  he  will 
rest  in  the  bosom  of  the  family.  Where  can  one  be  better?  See,  my  dear,  I  have 
brought  him  up  as  I  was  brought  up  myself  ....  and  tell  me,  do  you  find  me  so 
badly  reared?" 

Gertrude,  charmed,  put  her  hand  over  her  husband's  mouth,  who  kissed  it  ten- 
derly to  more  surely  win  the  cause  which  again  he  pleaded : 

"Say,  then,  to  our  Claire  that  you  are  not  unhappy  at  having  had  a  man  who 
sowed  his  wild  oats  at  the  proper  time,  and  consequently  has  no  need  to  sow  them 
after  marriage !  See,  my  beloved  Gertrude,  I  am  so  happy  at  being  united  to  the 
Bervilles  that  I  wish  to  be  thus  united  again,  for  the  sake  of  the  house  and  for  the 
sake  of  the  bank,  for  motives  of  interest,  for  motives  of  prudence,  for  the  dowry, 
in  plain  English,  for  the  strong-box.  Nothing  will  leave  the  family;  what  do  you 
think  of  that?" 

The  baroness,  shaken,  looked  at  Claire. 
"And  you,  Claire,  what  do  you  say  to  that?"  she  asked. 
"Yes,  answer,"  said  the  baron. 

But,  if  the  baron  seemed  obstinate  in  his  purpose,  his  daughter,  who  took  after 
him,  was  no  less  stubborn  in  her  own.     She  answered  resolutely,  with  tears  in  her 
handsome  eyes,  but  with  firmness  in  her  strong  voice : 
"No,  my  father,  I  shall  never  love  Camille." 

And  her  mother,  moved  by  Claire's  sorrow  and  also  by  her  courage,  again  de- 
fended her  against  the  father,  appealing  to  his  tenderness  against  his  wisdom, 
pleading  the  rights  of  the  heart  against  the  strong-box,  of  nobility,  religion,  and 
love  against  interest ;  and  finally  saying  to  the  baron  that  she  would  make  com- 
mon cause  with  Claire,  refuse,  in  her  capacity  of  guardian,  her  consent  to  her 
ward,  and,  so  far  as  she  could,  place  her  veto  upon  their  marriage. 

But  the  strain  of  her  effort  to  resist  her  dear  baron  brought  on  a  frightful  re- 
action, produced  one  of  those  nervous  crises  to  which  she  had  become  subject  soon 
after  her  marriage. 

Hypochondria,  sick  headaches,  neuralgia,  vertigo,  nervous  attacks,  all  different 
forms  of  one  and  the  same  disease,  a  disease  of  the  cities,  ending  in  hysteria,  epi- 
lepsy, eclampsy,  or  madness,  —  nevrose  in  short.  ...  ah  1  the  word  is  found,  but 
the  remedy  ?  The  incalculable  element  in  the  feminine  nature  is  so  complicated 


The  Strong-Box.  105 

and  delicate  that  a  nervous  affection  in  a  woman  is  a  bonanza  to  the  doctor  if  the 
patient  is  rich,  and  the  goal  of  his  science  if  he  is  learned. 

Diseases,  as  we  know,  are  dependent  upon  fashion.  Other  morals,  other  jnala- 
dies!  Nosology  changes  with  life.  Mucous  diseases  have  given  place  to  nervous 
diseases;  that  is,  the  tissues  which  suffered  from  the  more  animal  life  of  our 
fathers  were  the  mucous  tissues,  while  the  tissues  which  suffer  from  our  more  men- 
tal  life  are  the  nervous  tissues. 

As  for  remedies,  fashionable  or  not,  old  or  new,  physical  or  chemical,  all  are 
alike  impotent!  Indeed,  what  effect  can  senna  or  bismuth  have  on  an  andralgic 
old  maid  or  a  mother  who  mourns  a  dead  child? 

In  consequence  of  her  morbid  state  Gertrude  had  already  been  for  a  long  time 
under  the  care  of  two  physicians,  good  p  eople !  one  of  the  body  and  one  of  the 
soul,  Doctor  Dubois  and  the  abbe  Ventron.  Poor  woman !  To  say  nothing  of  her 
husband,  who  cared  for  her  more  than  the  two  others!  What  could  sh.e  be  ex- 
pected to  do  against  three? 

"  Go  for  the  doctor,"  cried  the  baron. 

"  And  Monsieur  the  abbe,"  said  the  baroness. 

At  that  moment  Camille  entered,  seeming  less  at  ease  than  usual  and  covered 
with  his  quarago,  a  long  cloak  worn  then  in  memory  of  the  Spanish  war,  which 
has  left  us  also  the  glory  of  the  Trocadero. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Camille  to  the  baron,  "  if  I  bring  you  a  friend.  ...  of  the 
boulevard,  one  of  the  ten  of  the  infernal  box,  one  of  those  lions  so  singularly 
coupled  with  the  biches  of  the  opera." 

Those  lions,  yesterday  creve's,  today  gommeux.  .  .  .  tomorrow  what? 

"M.  Louchard,"  added  Camille;  "he  desires  to  be  presented  to  you." 

And  he  bade  M.  Louchard  enter. 

The  stranger  thus  presented,  doubly  decorated  on  his  coat  and  overcoat,  removed 
his  eye-glass  from  his  bleared  eye,  and  made  a  bow  which  the  baron  returned. 

"Yes,  Monsieur,"  said  he,  "I  have  asked  Camilte  for  the  honor  of  an  introduc- 
tion and  an  interview  with  you  in  regard  to  an  affair.  .  .  .  worthy  of  you".  .  . 

Then,  perceiving  Madame  sunk  in  her  easy-chair,  he  said : 

"  But  it  seems  to  me  that  I  intrude.  I  find  you  with  your  family ;  and,  if  you 
like,  we  will  postpone  "... 

"  Not  at  all,  Monsieur,  there  is  time  for  everything,  for  business  as  well  as  family 
affairs;  and  if  the  heart  beats  under  the  pocket,  the  pocket"  .... 

"  Go  right  ahead  without  phrases,  iu  spite  of  the  ladies,"  said  Camille,  laughing 
at  the  baron,  who  had  stopped  short;  "the  pocket  stifles  the  heart ;  the  box  takes 
precedence  of  everything ;  that's  why  it  is  called  the  strong-box." 

"  The  madcap  1     To  what  affair  do  you  refer,  Monsieur?" 

"Ah!  a  colossal,  pyramidal  affair,  a  Mont-Blanc,"  added  Camille,  laughing. 
"§ee  the  high  forehead  of  the  'straight-haired  Corsican'  and  the  imperial  lock  of 


106  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

the  tuft  of  Bruraaire.  This  is  the  Napoleon  of  the  press.  .  .  .  one  idea  a  day, 
one  victory  rather;  a  great  man  without  principles;  a  child  of  love,  and  conse- 
quently without  prejudices ;  a  strong  friend  of  the  ministry, — a  recommendation 
to  you,  but  not  to  me;  one  who  has  revolutionized  the  old  press  by  inaugurating 
cheap  journalism,  in  the  interest,  he  says,  of  the  people  and  the  king,  to  that  end 
having  at  his  service  two  journals  for  and  against;  in  short,  a  power  in  your 
world  I  Good  luck  to  you  1 " 

"You  cover  me  with  confusion,  my  dear  Canaille,"  said  the  journalist;  "thank 
you!" 

"I  am  at  your  service,  Monsieur,"  said  the  banker,  with  a  little  more  considera- 
tion; "  I  beg  you  to  accompany  me  to  my  office." 

"  Gentlemen,  permit  me,  I  remain  with  these  ladies." 

The  journalist  and  the  banker  left  the  room  for  the  office. 

When  they  were  behind  closed  doors,  the  writer  said  to  the  baron  : 

"I  have.  .  .  .  Camille  said  two.  .  .  but  I  say  three  journals  at  my  disposition 
for  reaching  the  public.  Two  extremes  and  a  mean.  You  understand  1  I  speak 
to  all." 

"I  understand,  and  I  listen." 

"I  have  one  idea  a  day,  according  to  Camille.  The  fact  is  that  I  have  two  or 
three,  since  I  have  three  journals,  but  today  a  single  affair  needs  the  services  of 
the  three, — an  affair  of  gold,  a  stock  company  for  a  coal  mine." 

"  The  transmutation  of  coal  into  gold.  Then  you  have  found  the  philosopher's 
stone." 

"One  need  not  be  a  sorcerer  for  that;  coal  is  the  bread  of  manufactures. 
France  at  last  has  the  constitutional  regime  like  England,  the  regime  and  country 
par  excellence  of  manufactures  and  coal.  You  see  here  my  prospectus.  National 
manufactures,  competition  with  the  foreigner  1  Great  attraction  I  " 

"Excuse  me!"  said  the  banker,  interrupting  him  coldly.  "Where  is  this 
Mine?" 

"At  Saint-MSgrin,  Loir-et-Cher." 

"InSologne?" 

"Yes." 

"Ah  I  is  there  any  coal  in  this  miae?" 

"We  will  put  some  there." 

"Your  reply  is  somewhat  like  that  of  Bonaparte's  jailer,  who,  when  his  prisoner 
asked:  'But  are  there  no  trees  in  this  island  of  fire?'  answered:  'Sire,  we  will 
plant  some.'" 

"  Hudson  Lowe  planted  trees ;  I  will  deposit  coal." 

"But  you  forget  that  there  are  such  people  as  policemen." 

"You,  too,  forget  what  a  certain  Greek  said  of  the  law:  'It  is  a  spider's  web  in 
which  the  little  flies  are  caught  and  which  the  big  ones  break  through.' " 


The  Strong-Box.  107 

"Yes,  but  that  was  a  Greek." 

"  Well,  I  have  for  a  partner  the  broker  Gripon,  one  of  the  sixty  of  the  Bourse,  a 
Jew  who  is  worth  all  the  Greeks.  And  we  Christians,  who  say  so  much  evil  of 
the  entire  Levant,  though  the  finest  of  us  was  a  Jew.  ...  we  see  and  calculate 
after  the  manner  of  these  Orientals.  So  Gripon  in  person  has  proved  to  me,  as 
clearly  as  that  two  and  two  make  five  according  to  his  usual  arithmetic,  that,  if 
Moses  drew  water  from  the  rocks,  we  can  draw  gold  from  the  coal  which  is  lack- 
ing at  Saint-Megrin ;  that  we  have  the  philosopher's  press,  the  transmutation  of 
minerals,  vegetables,  and  even  animals;  in  short,  that  a  miracle  worked  in  the 
desert  can  readily  be  repeated  in  the  mine  of  a  saint." 

"  Leave  your  plan  with  me,  my  dear  Nostradamus ;  I  will  give  it  serious  study." 

He  shook  hands  with  the  journalist,  who  went  away  enchanted,  and  he  returned 
to  his  family  «.  .  .  after  business. 

"Ah!  pardon  me,"  said  he  as  he  came  back,  "but  you  know.  .  .  .  business! 
What  robbery  of  the  affections!  The  heart  after  the  strong-box,  as  this  disin- 
terested Camille  says.  Well,  my  dear,  how  do  you  feel  now?" 

The  crisis  had  returned,  and  Camille,  who  had  thrown  off  his  cloak,  showed  the 
banker  his  right  arm  in  a  bandage. 

"  What  the  devil's  the  matter  with  you?  "  said  the  baron,  in  surprise  and  alarm. 

"  Oh  !  nothing,  as  I  have  told  these  ladies.     An  accident,  a  fall  from  a  horse." 

"Take  a  little  better  care  of  yourself,  Camille,  or  you  will  enable  your  cousin  to 
prevail  against  us." 

"Against  us?" 

"Yes,  for  you  to  an  extent  are  the  cause  of  the  crisis  from  which  Gertrude  is 
suffering,  rny  dear  Camille." 

"  1 1    Then  indeed  am  I  disconsolate." 

"Yes;  we  were  discussing  your  marriage." 

"My  marriage?    Against  whom?  as  Scribe  says." 

"Oh!  do  not  joke,"  said  the  banker,  tenderly;  "your  cousin's  bad  health  makes 
it  important  that  she  should  be  relieved  of  her  duties,  if  not  by  a  better,  at  least 
by  a  stronger  mistress  of  the  house;  and  that  is  why,"  he  added,  solemnly,  "I 
have  thought  of  doubling  the  union  of  our  families.  ...  so  look  you,  my  dear 
ward,  with  a  straight  blow,  as  Bertrand  would  say,  full  in  the  breast,  I  offer  you 
niy  daughter." 

"  We  cannot  be  too  closely  related,  Monsieur,"  stammered  Camille,  politely. 

"You  hear  him,  ladies".  .  . 

"But  first  I  must  at  least  be  able  to  dispose  of  my  hand,"  said  he,  jokingly, 
showing  his  right  hand  in  a  scarf;  "a  marriage  with  the  left  hand  would  not  suit 
Claire." 

"It  is  enough  to  be  a  cousin,"  said  Claire,  dryly,  bowing  and  going  out. 

As  fpr  the  baroness,  she  kept  silence,  and  the  crisis  increased. 


108  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

The  doctor  who  had  been  sent  for  entered  with  a  jovial  air,  made  inquiries  about 
the  case,  took  the  pulse,  looked  at  the  tongue,  felt  of  head  and  heart,  and  in  short 
went  through  the  entire  diagnosis  usual  with  physicians  who  get  twenty  dollars  a 
visit ;  then  he  talked  a  great  deal  about  sto  cks  with  the  banker,  and  about  pro- 
spects of  rain  and  fine  weather  with  the  baroness ;  and  he  was  going  at  last  to 
write  his  prescription,  when  the  spiritual  director  entered. 

Confessor  and  physician  bowed  to  each  other  without  laughing,  like  Roman 
augurs;  and  then  began  between  them  a  clerico-medical  or  medico-clerical  confer- 
ence, cassia  and  incense  as  Moliere  would  say,  in  which  each  strove  for  supremacy. 

They  agreed  on  one  point,  —  that  Madame  was  suffering  from  an  indisposition 
not  immediately  alarming,  but  which  might  become  serious,  and  under  certain 
circumstances  dangerous  or  even  fatal. 

The  baron  listened  with  sympathetic  attention. 

"Whatl  fatal?"  said  he. 

"Yes,"  continued  the  physician,  "fatal.  But  you  have  her  life  in  your  hands; 
and  as  death  in  this  case  is  absolutely  dependent  upon  you,  Madame  has  nothing 
to  fear." 

"I  do  not  understand  you!  " 

"  Well,  I  must  explain  myself.  If  Madame  shoul  d  become  pregnant,  she  would 
not  survive  the  birth  of  her  child." 

"  That  is,  God  must  be  her  heir,"  said  the  confessor,  betraying  himself. 

"Not  a  strictly  necessary  conclusion,  Monsieur  abbe,"  said  the  baron;  "but, 
doctor,  why  would  pregnancy  be  fatal?  Women  do  not  always  die  in  child- 
birth." 

"  Surely  not ;  when  the  woman  is  in  good  condition,  it  is  an  act  of  nature,  always 
painful,  but  rarely  fatal." 

"Well,  then?" 

"It  is  because  Madame  is  afflicted  with  a  form  of  nervous  disease  which  does  not 
spare  in  cases  of  pregnancy.  I  should  fear  albuminuria,  or  perhaps  something 
worse;  confinement,  in  such  cases,  so  aggravates  the  disease  that  it  necessarily 
carries  off  the  patient."  • 

"But,"  ventured  Gertrude,  "may  the  child  survive?" 

"  Sometimes  the  mother  gives  her  life  to  the  child." 

u  Poor  dear  Gertrude  I "  exclaimed  the  baron,  embracing  her  impulsively. 

The  consultation  ended  as  it  began,  — upon  stocks,  rain,  and  fine  weather. 

Camille,  on  seeing  the  black  coats  enter,  had  gone  out,  threatened  with  a  mar- 
riage, glad  to  evade  and  postpone  the  question,  having  all  the  morality  of  his  day 
and  time  of  life,  no  more. 

"No  luck!"  said  he  to  himself,  feeling  of  his  wounded  hand,  "no  more  in  hero- 
ism than  in  marriage  1 " 

Where  was  he  going? 


The  Strong-Sox.  109 

As  his  would-be  father-in-law  said,  .he  was  going  to  finish  himself  for  a  good 
husband  by  his  life  as  a  bachelor. 
He  was  going,  then,  to  Sophie's. 


110  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  IL 

THE  STUDENTS.  —  SOPHIE. 

The  beauty  in  the  India  cashmere,  the  elegant  interloper  of  the  Mount  of  Piety, 
who  had  refused  a  dollar  to  her  mother,  and  who  had  received  a  hundred  dollars 
which  the  Hercules  of  the  North  claimed,  had  also  grown  and  ripened,  like  our 
other  characters. 

Endowed  with  that  common  beauty  which  has  so  many  admirers  .  .  .  ordinary 
wine  is  drunk  in  larger  quantities  than  super  ior  Me'doc  .  .  '.  endowed  on  the  other 
hand  with  a  shrewdness  that  is  far  from  ordinary,  she  had  ascended  the  entire 
scale  of  prostitution. 

She  no  longer  went  to  the  Mount  of  Piety ;  but,  from  heart  or  calculation  01 
both, — for  these  courtesans  sometimes  have  a  passion  which,  intense  and  strong 
though  low  and  vile,  overcomes  everything,  even  their  interest,  their  security,  and 
their  life,  —  she  had  kept,  perhaps  for  his  physical  qualities,  as  he  himself  said,  her 
first  lover  or  her  champion,  the  Hercules  of  the  North. 

She  exhibited  him  only  in  extreme  circumstances  and  in  cases  of  necessity. 

Established  in  the  locality  where  her  profession  is  carried  on,  in  a  charming 
villa  in  the  Champs-Elyse'es,  she  received  there  a  circle  scarcely  in  keeping  with 
the  presence  of  the  Hercules.  As  an  habitue  of  her  house,  he  would  have  been  a 
hindrance  to  her  business;  he  had  to  serve  simply  as  a  protector  when  occasion  re- 
quired. Therefore  he  never  appeared  except  in  case  of  need,  and  then  only  to  set- 
tle tragic  situations,  like  the  God  of  Horace,  Deus  ex  machind. 

She  practised  her  profession  adroitly,  prudently;  she  prospered.  She  had  found 
out  that,  to  get  rich,  one  must  not  only  work  himself,  but  must  make  others  work 

.  .  and  still  young  enough  to  exploit  herself,  she  was  no  less  shrewd  in  exploiting 
her  fellows. 

It  had  just  struck  six  in  her  parlor  furnished  with  divans,  sofas,  lounges,  otto- 
mans, and  long  chairs  of  all  forms  and  all  countries.  One  would  have  said  that 
she  had  consecrated  her  furniture  to  the  God  of  rest. 

In  the  middle  of  the  parlor,  however,  was  another  piece  of  furniture,  a  large 
round  table,  at  which  were  seated  not  a  few  blacklegs  and  young  women. 

Over  the  table  was  spread  a  doubtful  cover,  and  it  was  loaded  with  a  suspicious 
dinner,  given  evidently  for  the  sake  of  form  and  under  the  name  of  table  d'hote. 


The  Strong-Box.  Ill 

Oertaiiily  the  table  must  serve  for  something  besides  eating,  in  this  house  so  ad- 
mirably situated  for  some  other  purpos  e,  in  an  isolated  nook  between  court  and 
garden,  no  neighbor  able  to  look  over  the  wall  and  cast  an  indiscreet  or  curious 
glance  at  Sophie's  double  and  triple  mystery,  culinary,  erotic,  and  mercurial,  when 
the  real  industry  of  her  house  was  in  progress. 

The  dinner  over  and  the  table  cleared,  an  attendant,  with  the  manners  and  ac- 
cent of  an  Italian,  brought  some  cards;  and  an  old  woman,  resembling  the  mother 
who  wanted  a  dollar  at  the  Mount  of  Piety,  brought  candles. 

Then  the  friends,  of  both  sexes,  all  the  guests,  some  standing,  others  sitting, 
others  more  than  sitting,  according  to  the  Turkish  proverb:  "Better  sitting  than 
standing,  and  better  lying  than  sitting,"  took  their  places  at  the  gaming-table, 
drew  from  their  pockets  larger  or  smaller  piles  of  gold,  silver,  and  bank-notes,  .  .  . 
and  the  game  began. 

Sophie  presided  and  kept  the  bank. 

Thus,  when  society  is  in  a  morbid  condition,  the  disease  which  it  lops  off  in  one 
form  springs  up  again  in  another.  The  public  gambling-houses  which  it  had 
closed  opened  again  secretly,  more  dangerous  than  ever. 

The  game  soon  became  warm;  stakes  increasing,  losses  and  gains  taking  on 
enormous  and  suspicious  proportions,  amid  the  laughs  of  the  winners,  the  fury  of 
the  losers,  the  jests  and  oaths  of  all ;  the  women  looking  with  favor  upon  the  for- 
tunate, despite  the  proverb :  "  Lucky  in  games,  unlucky  in  love  1 "  Refreshments 
— pardon  me!  —  stimulants  circulating,  and  the  flame  of  the  punch  adding  to  the 
ardor  of  the  game. 

In  short,  the  usual  picture  of  clandestine  gambling-houses,  worse  than  the  public 
ones,  closed  by  the  government,  with  which  every  vice  is  open  and  acknowledged, 
Bacchus  as  well  as  Venus,  the  whole  Olympus  of  evil,  except  Mercury,  except  rob- 
bery .  .  .  which  remains  hidden. 

At  this  moment  Camille  entered,  his  arm  still  bandaged. 

Honor  to  whom  honor  is  duel  Sophie  moved  to  make  room  for  him  at  her 
right.  He  was  welcomed  by  all,  both  men  and  women,  for  he  was  the  finest  gam- 
bler of  them  all;  though  not  the  richest,  the  most  free-handed;  the  least  furious 
when  losing  and  the  least  inclined  to  banter  when  winning;  always  even-tempered 
and  courteous,  whatever  his  luck;  and  as  generous  as  he  was  polite  to  the  con- 
quered, especially  of  the  other  sex. 

With  his  uninjured  hand  he  drew  from  his  pocket  an  enormous  package  of  bank- 
notes and  began  to  play  desperately,  as  if  to  drive  himself  to  suicide,  to  ruin  him- 
self, to  force  himself  to  marry  Claire. 

With  every  turn  of  the  cards  he  won  .  .  .  and  already  the  eyes  of  all  his  adver- 
saries were  turned  upon  him  ill-naturedly.  All  pupils  and  all  hearts  gravitated  by 
the  Newtonian  law  toward  his  mass  in  the  direct  ratio  of  its  weight. 

He  had  taken  everybody's  pile,  among  others  that  of  the  young  cashier  who  had 


112  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

replaced  Bremont  at  twice  his  salary  and  who  had  lost  all;  and  he  had  politely 
handed  back  to  him  twelve  bank-notes,  at  the  same  time  making  another  package 
for  Marraine,  as  they  called  Sophie,  whose  pile  was  also  gone. 

All  envied  this  insolent  luck ;  some,  trying  to  pick  a  quarrel,  ventured  a  suspi- 
cion and  even  an  accusation ;  and  things  were  on  the  point  of  taking  an  untoward 
turn  for  the  lucky  Canaille,  when  suddenly  the  Italian  valet  entered,  crying: 
"Police!  Police!" 

Then  there  was  a  general  panic.  Each  one  for  himself!  Men  and  women  rose, 
ran  some  to  the  doors,  others  to  the  windows,  and  the  commissary  of  police  en- 
tered. He  laid  hands  upon  the  money  and  the  cards,  and  meanwhile  everybody 
slipped  away  except  Camille,  who,  desirous  of  taking  away  his  pile,  had  only  time 
to  throw  himself  under  a  sofa  in  order  to  avoid  arrest. 

The  room  was  thus  emptied  of  the  other  players. 

The  commissary,  taking  off  his  scarf,  straightway  sat  down  beside  Sophie,  and, 
taking* her  in  his  two  strong  arms,  he  cried,  laughing: 

"What  a  stroke,  eh?  Ha!  ha!  Are  they  plucked?  And  the  little  one-armed 
fellow,  too!  What  luck!  Ha!  ha!  Kiss  me  again." 

And  he  began  to  laugh  again  as  if  he  would  split  his  sides  and  to  kiss  Sophie  as 
if  she  were  made  of  sugar. 

During  this  passionate  but  ridiculous  embrace  Camille  stole  furtively  from  his 
hiding-place,  and,  throwing  himself  upon  his  money,  seized  it  and  leaped  out  of 
the  half -open  window  into  the  garden. 

"Not  such  a  one-armed  fellow,  after  all!"  he  cried,  as  he  fled. 

Sophie  and  the  commissary  sat  a  moment  as  if  petrified. 

Then,  the  first  to  recover,  and  crying  "  Stop  thief  I  "  she  said  to  the  Hercules : 

"Why  don't  you  run  after  him,  you  stupid?  Quick,  now,  and  overtake  him! 
Paolo,  Babet,  all  hands  into  the  garden,  and  close  the  street  door  at  once!" 

The  Italian  and  the  Hercules  started  with  the  fury  of  lashed  dogs.  Excited  by 
Sophie  and  the  hope  of  gold  and  vengeance,  they  followed  Camille,  and  a  terrible 
chase  began  through  the  darkness  of  the  garden. 

The  fanfaronade  continued. 

"  What !  you  lazy,  clumsy  rascals,  you  are  going  to  let  him  escape,  taking  every- 
thing with  him,  cowards  that  you  are!"  Sophie  shouted  after  them,  with  all  the 
fury  of  Diana  the  huntress. 

They  had  jumped  out  of  the  window,  and,  being  more  familiar  with  the  grounds 
than  he,  they  had  already  gained  on  him,  aud  soon  had  him  surrounded ;  the  Ital- 
ian, nimbler  than  the  Hercules,  getting  between  the  fugitive  and  the  door  and 
cutting  off  his  outlet  from  the  garden. 

Camille's  position  was  growing  critical,  and  God  stood  a  chance  of  inheriting 
the  Berville  property. 

But  the  Italian  being  the  weaker  of  the  two  Curiatii,  our  young  one-armed 


The  Strong-Box.  113 

Horace,  without  paying  attention  to  the  Hercules  in  the  rear,  and  having  only  his 
left  arm  at  his  service,  abandoned  all  reliance  on  that,  and  by  a  stroke  known 
among  wrestlers  as  the  ram's  stroke  (coup  de  belter)  rushed  head  first  upon  Paolo, 
bunted  him  in  the  belly,  and  sent  him  rolling  on  the  ground. 

Meanwhile  the  Hercules  had  come  up  and  was  about  to  seize  Camille  and  hold 
him  fast  in  his  athlete's  arms,  when,  though  not  the  strongest,  the  one-armed  man 
showed  himself  the  shrewdest  by  taking  gold  pieces  from  his  pocket  and  scattering 
them  behind  him  as  he  ran,  as  Hippomenes  of  old  threw  down  the  golden  apples 
in  the  path  of  Atalanta. 

The  Hercules  stopped,  bent  over,  and  picked  them  up,  thus  giving  Camille  a 
start. 

But  the  Italian,  more  light  of  foot  and  now  armed  with  his  national  knife,  had 
made  a  flank  movement. 

Camille  tried  the  same  trick:  once  more  he  sowed  his  gold  in  order  to  reap 
salvation. 

"Don't  stop  to  pick  them  up,  imbeciles!"  cried  Sophie;  "collar  him  first,  and 
we  will  gather  up  the  coins  afterwards." 

And  they  obeyed.  Nothing  further  stopped  them,  but  they  were  too  late  in 
adopting  this  course,  fortunately  for  Camille. 

At  last  he  had  gained  the  door  of  exit,  left  open  by  those  who  had  preceded  him 
in  his  retreat.  He  passed  out,  followed  immediately  by  the  two  watch-dogs,  who 
nabbed  him  and  began  to  strangle  him.  Suddenly  Paolo,  who  had  more  than  one 
reason  for  doing  so,  let  go  his  hold,  crying,  "  Some  one  comes ! "  and  ran  away, 
leaving  Camille  to  cry  "Stop  thief! "  and  struggle  in  the  hands  of  the  Hercules,  be- 
fore whom  arose  a  robust  rag-picker  armed  with  his  hook. 

Hoffman's  ward,  God's  rival  for  the  inheritance  of  Gertrude's  estate,  Claire's  in- 
tended, the  student  of  so  much  promise,  spent  an  unpleasant  quarter  of  an  hour 
and  was  indebted  for  his  safety  to  Jean,  who,  delivering  him  from  the  Hercules, 
said  to  him  with  his  sagacious  raillery: 

"You  have  made  a  fine  escape,  my  young  man!  But  if  you  had  not  had  so 
much  gold  in  your  pockets,  you  would  not  have  drawn  this  hornet-drone  down  up- 
on you." 

"  Thanks,  and  pardon  me  for  being  unable  to  reward  you  better  than  by  offering 
you  this  little  sum,"  said  Camille,  holding  out  his  almost  empty  purse.  "Saved, 
but  robbed!  Where  can  I  send  you  more?" 

"  It's  not  worth  while,"  said  Jean,  with  a  gesture  of  refusal.  "  See,  the  rascal  is 
running  to  the  right ;  you  go  to  the  left,  and  good  night." 

To  Camille  the  words  sounded  like  an  echo  of  the  maternal  voice;  he  pressed 
the  rag-picker's  hand  and  started  off. 

'  And  the  rag-picker  went  about  his  work  again,  saying  to  himself:  "Devil  take  me 
if  I  am  not  decidedly  taking  the  place  of  the  'cops.'    Truly,  the  police  department 


114  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

owes  me  a  salary;  and  yet  it  talks  of  suppre  ssing  us  rag-pickers.  What  ingrati- 
tude 1  It  fears  competition.  Meanwhile  we  must  fill  our  baskets." 

And  he  worked  away  a  t  Sophie's  dirt-pile. 

Camille,  under  the  pressure  of  pain,  entered  a  drug-store  that  was  still  open,  for 
the  purpose  of  readjusting  his  bandage,  which  had  been  disarranged  by  the  struggle. 

What  was  the  origin  of  this  wound  in  his  right  hand? 

On  the  morning  preceding  this  fine  eve  ning  he  had  been  at  the  rooms  of  the 
Marianne  society  to  celebrate  regici  de  with  a  meeting,  secret  like  the  gambling- 
house. 


The   Strong-Box.  115 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  STUDENTS.  —  REGICIDE. 

It  was  the  anniversary  of  January  21. 

The  students  and  the  workingmen  were  celebrating  the  execution  of  Capet  by 
an  extraordinary  session,  the  reception  of  new  members,  and  a  commemorative 
banquet  in  the  Passage  de  Ge"nie,  situated  in  the  revolutionary  faubourg  of  that 
period,  the  Faubourg  Antoine,  as  it  was  called. 

The  room  was  decorated  in  red,  the  bust  of  Louis  Philippe  occupying  a  conspi- 
cuous position;  the  meeting  was  made  up  of  the  usual  elements,  students  of  all 
schools,  laborers  of  all  trades,  the  latter  led  by  the  workingman  of  the  Mount  of 
Piety  with  his  hammer,  the  intelligent  "typos  "  being  most  largely  represented. 

The  session  had  been  opened  by  the  reception  of  candidates  for  membership, 
who  swore  upon  their  side-arms  and  their  fire-arms,  upon  pistol  and  dagger,  hatred 
of  royalty  and  war  upon  it,  pledging  themselves  to  devote  life,  possessions,  and  lib- 
erty to  the  death  of  the  king  and  the  glory  of  the  Republic,  to  obey  the  word  of 
command  without  question,  and  to  keep  the  secret  on  pain  of  death. 

Then,  by  way  of  symbolism,  Camille,  who  presided,  had  broken  the  bust  of  the 
king  and  crowned  that  of  Marianne  with  oak  and  olive. 

Then  the  breakfast  had  begun,  the  symbolism  being  kept  up  by  the  appearance 
on  all  the  taWes  of  a  big  fat  calf's  head  crowned  with  laurel-sauce  as  the  principal 
dish,  and  of  Bon-Chre'tien  pears  as  the  only  fruit  at  dessert. 

When  the  hour  for  toasts  arrived,  Camille,  as  president,  had  first  proposed  the 
toast  of  honor,  the  famous  toast  to  the  national  Convention. 

"  To  that  Assembly  of  Titans  who  scaled  Heaven  and  the  Louvre,  dethroned 
God  and  the  King,  and  established  Reason  and  the  People ;  to  that  regicidal  As- 
sembly which  beheaded  the  master  and  crowned  the  slave ;  to  that  patriotic  As- 
sembly which  delivered  the  territory  and  created  the  nation ;  to  that  democratic 
Assembly  which,  on  the  ruin  of  the  three  orders,  founded  the  Republic  one  and  in- 
divisible; to  that  humane  Assembly  which  embodied  the  three  principles  of  the 
French  Revolution,  the  three  dogmas  of  Athens,  Sparta,  and  Thebes  united,  the 
Hellenic  Trinity  of  modern  religion,  Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity." 

After  this  toast,  which  was  the  first  and  the  last,  Camille,  pouring  out  his  clas- 
sical knowledge,  had  added,  amid  unanimous  applause,  that  to  talk  was  well,  but 


116  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

that  to  act  was  better;  that  an  ounce  of  deeds  was  worth  a  hundred  pounds  of 
words;  that  the  best  way  to  honor  the  heroes  of  the  Convention  was  to  imitate 
them;  that  there  was  no  Capitol  without  a  king's  head;  that  Athens  had  slain 
Pisistratus,  Rome  Tarquin,  Lucerne  Gessler,  London  Charles,  and  Paris  Louis; 
that  it  was  necessary  to  put  principles  into  practice  and  restore  Reason  to  Notre- 
Dame,  the  Convention  to  the  Tuileries,  and  the  Commune  to  the  H6tel  de  Ville; 
in  short,  that  they  must  enter  upon  their  work,  follow  and  avenge  the  ancients 
and  the  moderns,  avenge  Alibaud  as  well  as  Robespierre,  deliver  the  People,  and 
reestablish  the  Republic. 

And  upon  his  motion  an  order  of  the  day  had  been  unanimously  voted  that,  on 
the  first  occasion  when  the  king  should  appear  in  public, — laughter  is  mingled 
with  everything  in  France,  even  with  regicide,  —  they  should  rent  a  window  on  the 
Rue  de  Rivoli,  extend  a  line,  with  a  purse  at  the  end  for  bait,  directly  over  the 
royal  head,  and,  at  the  moment  when  Philippe  would  certainly  stop  and  lift  his 
poire  to  this  bait,  fire  at  him  the  liberating  shot. 

Then  they  preceded  to  select  by  lot  the  member  to  whom  this  duty  should  be 
entrusted. 

At  that  epoch  police  traps  were  very  common,  a  famous  spy,  Vidocq,  having  set 
the  fashion. 

His  successors  have  imitated  him  without  replacing  him.  The  young  believe 
that  the  world  was  made  yesterday  because  they  were  born  day  before  yesterday, 
just  as  the  old  believe  that  the  world  will  end  tomorrow  because  they  are  to  die 
day  after  tomorrow. 

The  truth  is  that  the  world  is  of  longer  duration  than  old  and  young  together; 
that  there  were  strong  men  before  Agamemnon,  that  there  have  been  some  since, 
and  that  there  are  more  to  come ;  that  men  succeed  each  other  and  events  are  con- 
stantly repeated;  in  short,  that  the  world  ends  and  begins  again  incessantly,  with 
the  same  bandits  and  the  same  heroes,  in  a  perpetual  becoming.  * 

So  just  then  the  police  burst  into  the  room.  Each  one  kept  silence  and  his 
place. 

The  officer  in  command  of  the  police  asked  who  was  charged  with  the  duty  of 
killing  the  king. 

Silence  was  the  sole  response. 

The  officer  then  said : 

"I  arrest  all  present." 

Then  a  new  member,  presented  by  Camille,  a  student  like  himself,  the  young 
Count  de  Frinlair,  said : 

"It  is  Camille  Berville." 

"Traitor,"  cried  the  officer,  "I  arrest  youl  " 

"  Oh ! "  exclaimed  Frinlair,  terrified. 

"  Yes,  you,  and  you  know  the  sentence !     You  must  die." 


The  Strong -Box.  117 

Immediately  the  sham  police,  which  was  merely  a  device  to  test  the  fidelity  of 
the  members,  decided  that  Camille  should  carry  out  the  sentence.  Then,  with 
shouts  of  "Down  with  the  king!"  "Down  with  the  traitor!"  all  went  out,  except 
Frinlair  himself  and  Camille  who  was  charged  with  his  execution. 

It  was  Camille  who  had  presented  Frinlair,  his  friend,  his  schoolmate,  his  fellow- 
student  at  the  law-school.  .  .  .  and  his  rival  for  Claire's  hand. 

Nothing  could  be  more  opposite  than  these  two  friends,  nothing  more  different 
than  their  characters.  By  birth,  by  nature,  by  instinct,  by  tendency,  and  by  edu- 
cation, they  thwarted  and  combatted  each  other.  They  hated  each  other  as 
naturally  as  Montaigne  and  La  Boetie  loved  each  other,  and  for  no  other  reason 
than  that  one  was  Frinlair  and  the  other  Berville. 

Canaille's  well-grounded  goodness  had  overcome  the  spontaneous  repulsion  which 
Gaston  de  Frinlair  had  inspired  in  him. 

Camille  had  often  said  to  himself:  "Because  he  is  light  and  I  am  dark,  because 
he  has  a  flat  nose  and  I  a  straight  one,  must  I  kill  him?" 

Frinlair  was  less  scrupulous,  and  abandoned  himself  absolutely  to  his  repug- 
nance, his  jealousy,  his  rivalry,  and  all  the  passions  of  race,  caste,  and  class  which 
animated  him  against  Camille. 

But  duty  got  the  upper  hand  of  pity  in  Berville,  who  handed  his  weapon  to  Frin- 
lair and  said  to  him,  in  the  manner  of  a  Roman : 

"  Kill  yourself !" 

Frinlair  was  not  a  coward,  but  a  traitor ;  his  cry  did  not  arise  from  weakness,  it 
was  the  cry  of  an  informer. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  he,  taking  the  pistol;  whereupon  he  fired  at  Camille,  wound- 
ing him  in  the  right  hand  and  running  away. 

Camille,  surprised  and  bleeding,  had  then  left  also,  saying  to  himself:  "I  am 
wrong.  The  first  time  a  man  deceives  me,  he  is  wrong;  the  second,  it  is  I." 

And  he  recalled  that  the  Count  de  Frinlair,  an  ambassador's  son  and  an  attache 
of  the  embassy,  who  had  inspired  in  him  an  antipathy  which  it  would  have  been 
well  to  have  obeyed,  had  been  his  first  deception  and  his  first  duel. 

In  fact,  some  months  before,  smitten  with  a  grisette,  —  there  were  still  grisettes 
in  the  days  of  Beranger, — and  wishing  to  place  her  in  furnished  apartments,  like 
the  high-born  student  that  he  was,  he  had  called  on  the  handsome  Camille  and  used 
this  diplomatic  language : 

"  Come,  do  me  a  friend's  service.  I  am  willing  to  shower  extravagances  on  Ma- 
zagran,  but  first  I  wish  to  know  if  she  is  worthy  of  them.  Pay  court  to  her  your- 
self; here  is  her  address.  If  she  resists  you,  you  the  irresistible,  then  I  establish 
her.  But  give  me  your  word  of  honor  that  you  will  tell  me  the  truth." 

"A  vile  errand,  my  dear;  I  refuse." 

"But,  I  assure  you,  Mazagran  is  charming." 

"I  know  it!  I  call  it  a  vile  errand,  not  because  of  her,  but  because  of  you  and 
me," 


118  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"Not  so  sure  that  you  would  succeed,  eh?"  said  Frinlair,  piqued;  "but  try; 
friendship  before  scruples." 

"Ah!  on  the  ground  of  friendship?  So  be  it,  then,  since  you  wish  it  and  exact 
it!  I  go  in  search  of  pleasure  through  devotion." 

After  having  thus  hesitated,  he  had  succumbed  to  youth,  and  had  accepted. 

Camille  was  certainly  more  seductive  than  Frinlair,  and,  above  all,  more  prodigal. 

Having  made  the  test  triumphantly,  he  was  still  in  doubt  whether  he  should  be 
true  with  Frinlair.  To  inform  against  this  good  girl,  whose  only  wrong  consisted 
in  having  been  risked  by  one  and  tempted  by  another  and  in  having  preferred  him 
to  her  lover,  seemed  to  him  unworthy.  But  then,  to  deceive  his  friend  1  to  violate 
his  word  of  honor  1  Where  will  honor  lodge  itself  next?  A  lesson,  he  had  said  to 
himself.  The  mistake  lay  in  having  accepted.  He  should  have  refused.  Finally 
his  promise  proved  the  stronger  with  him,  and,  when  he  next  saw  Friulair,  he  had 
said  to  him : 

"  Be  economical ! " 

"What!     It  is  not  true." 

"You  gi\«e  me  the  lie?" 

"It  is  conceit!" 

"Conceit  and  falsehood,  two  insults!  Too  many  for  one  service,  a  bad  one,  it 
is  true,  but  still  a  service  asked  and  rendered.  I  demand,  then,  retraction  or  satis- 
faction." 

The  duel  had  taken  place,  and  Camille  had  been  wounded  by  a  sword-thrust  in 
the  same  hand.  Decidedly  this  hand  was  unfortunate. 

After  the  second  wound  made  by  the  pistol,  the  unlucky  Camille  went  to  have 
it  dressed  by  Doctor  Dubois ;  and  that  is  why  he  had  his  right  hand  in  a  scarf,  nei- 
ther heroic  nor  marriageable,  powerless  to  offer  a  ring  to  Claire  or  the  purse  to  Phi- 
lippe, regretting  one  more  than  the  other,  and  certainly  owing  his  life  to  Jean. 


The  Strong-Box.  119 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  CONFESSIONAL. 

If  all  had  changed,  and  for  the  better,  in  the  Berville  mansion  which  had  become 
the  Hotel  Hoffmann,  it  was  different  in  the  Didier  mansard. 

Mansard  1  the  glory  of  the  architect  who  gave  his  name  to  this  invention  which 
benefits  the  poor  at  the  expense  of  the  rats  and  to  the  advantage  of  proprietors  I 
Glory !  Be  sure  that  a  bad  invention  brings  its  author  more  renown  than  a  good 
one.  The  guillotine  made  Guillotin  illustrious;  nicotine,  Nicot;  the  bayonet, 
Bayonne ;  the  plough,  nobody.  If  you  kill  a  hundred  men,  you  have  a  cross ;  a 
thousand,  a  statue;  a  million,  a  column.  To  great  men  the  world  is  grateful.  - 

In  the  Didier  mansard  nothing  had  changed,  at  least  for  the  better;  nothing  had 
improved,  but,  on  the  contrary,  everything  had  deteriorated;  to  be  sure,  there  was 
still  and  always  the  same  care,  the  same  order,  the  same  cleanliness,  Jacques's 
watch,  rescued  from  the  clutches  of  the  Gripon,  serving  as  the  household  clock. 
But  there  was  no  longer  the  enthusiasm,  the  passion,  the  ardor  of  former  days.  It 
was  duty  done  by  habit  but  wearily ;  the  painful  was  manifest  on  every  hand,  af- 
ter twelve  long  years  of  mourning,  privation,  and  sickness. 

What  a  difference  and  what  a  distance  1  Formerly  this  poverty  was  brightened 
and  vivified  by  the  joys  of  love  and  the  family.  The  child's  cradle,  the  sun  of  this 
poverty,  flooded  it  with  light  and  hope.  Louise  sang  as  she  waited  for  her  hus- 
band. Today  this  is  ended  and  forever.  Hope  no  longer  dwells  there.  The 
widow  waits  for  nothing  but  rest  in  the  grave,  her  remains  mingled  with  those  of 
her  husband.  Her  existence,  like  her  countenance,  is  covered  with  a  black  veiL 
Every  step  in  her  life  is  a  step  towards  death. 

Seated  at  her  work-table,  exhausted  by  so  many  trials  and  sorrows,  emaciated 
and  pale,  her  hair  thin  and  dull,  her  temples  sunken,  her  eye  leaden,  her  ear  pallid, 
her  nose  pinched,  her  red  cheek-bones  indicative  of  quick  consumption,  her  hands 
bony,  Louise  Didier  labored  with  feverish  activity,  interrupted  by  fits  of  coughing 
which  her  bent  posture  aggravated. 

She  accomplished  her  task,  the  price  of  her  daily  bread,  but  without  any  heart 
in  her  work.  That  indescribable  feeling  of  privacy,  intimacy,  belonging,  the  Eng- 
lish home, — the  French  lack  the  word  if  not  the  thing, — the  happiness  in  short 
that  renders  labor  light,  no  longer  existed  for  her.  "No  more  love,  hence  no  more 
joy,"  said  Lafontaine,  the  eighth  wise  man  if  not  the  first. 


120  The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 

The  widow's  look  wandered  for  a  moment  from  the  table  where  she  was  sewing 
to  the  bed  where  Jacques  had  once  lain  for  three  days  awaiting  burial.  Her 
gloomy  thought  did  not  evoke  memories  of  their  life  together.  This  bed  was  no 
longer  the  nuptial  bed  of  their  lost  loves,  but  the  death-bed  of  Jacques.  Misfor- 
tune had  struck  the  poor  mansard  with  its  black  wing  and  turned  it  into  a  tomb; 
all  was  mourning  now  for  the  widow  of  the  money-bearer.  The  blow  which 
opened  Didier's  forehead  pierced  just  as  fatally  the  heart  of  his  companion.  She 
had  no  further  reason  to  be,  to  live,  to  hope.  Her  soul  was  killed,  but  not  her 
conscience. 

And,  thinking  of  her  daughter,  she  began  again  to  sew  and  cough. 

"  Oh !  this  cough  is  breaking  me  down,"  she  said  befween  two  attacks.  "Never 
mind,  my  neighbor  is  right.  Marie  is  still  so  young,  thirteen  years.  .  .  It  would 
be  necessary  to  take  care  of  me.  .  .  But  how,  without  time  or  money?" 

And  she  sorrowfully  shook  her  head,  absorbed  in  the  fate  that  pursued  her. 

A  discreet  and  yet  familiar  knock,  which  she  recognized,  recalled  her  to  herself. 

"Come  in,"  said  she,  trying  to  put  a  tone  of  gayety  into  her  voice. 

The  rag-picker  entered  respectfully  .  .  .  still  robust  after  these  twelve  years. 
But  grown  old  and  gray;  time  spares  nobody,  not  even  rag-pickers;  a  little  bent 
from  the  habit  of  carrying  his  basket,  and  saddened,  like  his  poor  protegee,  by  the 
very  rebound  of  the  evils  from  which  she  suffered,  brave  heart!  It  was  no  longer 
Jean,  it  was  Father  Jean. 

"  Ah !  it  is  you,  Father  Jean,"  said  the  widow,  affectionately. 

"  Yes.  I  bring  you  a  little  work  which  Madame  Bremont  handed  me  from  her- 
self and  from  Madame  Gertrude ;  more  than  you  can  do,  sick  as  you  are." 

And  he  laid  on  the  table  a  bundle  of  materials  with  a  note  of  explanation. 

"And  how  are  you  this  evening?"  he  continued. 

"  Always  the  same." 

"Did  you  go  to  the  consultation?" 

"I  have  just  returned.     Again  they  have  told  me  the  same  thing." 

"  Ah,  yes,  not  sick  enough  to  enter  the  hospital.  I  am  not  a  doctor,  but  I  say 
that  it  is  none  too  soon  to  take  care  of  you." 

And,  nothing  doubting,  he  added : 

"My  heart  must  be  clear.  I  will  go  to  the  doctor  of  the  Board  of  Charity. 
They  say  he  is  a  good  man.  And  what  did  they  prescribe  for  you?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Mme.  Didier  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulder. 

"What,  nothing!  .  .  .     Doctors.  .  .  .  impossible!" 

"Nothing,  I  tell  you,  less  than  nothing.  .  .  .  follies.  .  .  .  The  open  air,  the 
country,  a  journey  to  Nice,  Bordeaux  wine,  roast  meats." 

"  A  fine  prescription !  It  lacks  nothing  save  the  means  of  following  it.  A  little 
money  would  serve  the  purpose  better  than  their  knowledge.  And  Mam'zelle 
Marie?" 


The  Strong-Box.  121 

"  She  is  at  confession.  ...  for  her  first  communion." 

"  Hrn  1 "  growled  Jean,  twisting  his  beard. 

Marie  entered. 

Time,  so  damaging  to  those  who  are  descending,  is  kind  to  those  who  are  rising. 

The  little  Marie  had  become  Mam'zelle  Marie. 

The  child  had  grown,  charming  and  clever  like  her  mother,  inheriting  beauty 
and  goodness.  There  was  no  moral  deficiency  in  her  poor  but  healthy  education. 
Precept,  lesson,  example,  and  practice,  in  labor  and  patience,  tenderness  and  duty, 
had  cultivated  all  the  gifts  of  her  pure,  fine  nature. 

How  account  for  this  exceptional  flower,  which  ought  to  be  the  rule  in  a  better 
civilization? 

Given  the  social  creature,  certainly  the  most  human  is  that  whose  type  offers 
the  most  harmonious  ensemble  of  the  highest  and  noblest  faculties.  We  can  say 
logically  that  the  best  of  beings  will  be  the  most  beautiful.  The  beautiful  is  the 
form  of  the  good,  says  Plato.  Organs  are  proportional  to  exercise,  the  social  as 
well  as  the  others.  The  serviceable,  devoted,  gener  ous  being  developing  more  and 
more  the  highest  organs  at  the  expense  of  the  lowest,  by  what  is  called  the  law  of 
balance,  it  follows  that  the  Didier  species  is  likely  to  be  more  beautiful  than  rumi- 
nants like  the  Bervilles  or  carnivora  like  the  Garousses. 

The  deformation  of  the  race  through  egoism,  pride,  and  interest  is  proverbial. 
The  lip  of  the  Hapsburgs,  the  nose  of  the  Bourbons,  and  the  ugliness  of  the  Span- 
ish grandees  are  historical. 

Marie  Didier's  youth  was  of  that  type  which  art  par  excellence,  Greek  art,  has 
characterized  and  named  in  its  goddess  Juno.  Her  hair  of  a  golden-grain  color, 
her  eyes  the  color  of  the  corn-flower  and  as  brilliant  as  the  corn-poppy,  a  perfect 
Ceres  in  the  matter  of  color.  .  .  .  and  in  form  as  regular  as  a  Madonna.  Marie 
was  to  Claire  what  a  Raphael  is  to  a  Goya.  .  .  .  the  beauty  of  the  flower  and  the 
goodness  of  the  fruit. 

Marie,  physiologically,  was  what  her  mother  was,  plus  the  power  given  her  by 
her  worthy  father. 

Thus  she  had  inherited  the  skill  and  clearness,  as  well  as  the  elegance  and  con- 
science of  her  mother.  She  even  surpassed  Louise.  For  accumulation  by  heredi- 
tary transmission,  as  long  as  the  race  is  not  decrepit,  is  another  law  of  nature; 
this  makes  progress.  Raphael,  the  painter,  surpassed  his  father;  Charlemagne, 
the  warrior,  likewise.  It  is  true  that  we  have  the  younger  Racine  and  the  younger 
Dumas,  but  the  exception  proves  the  rule. 

So  Marie  promised  to  be  a  beautiful  girl  as  well  as  a  good  worker.  And  though 
she  could  already  aid  her  mother  in  toiling  for  the  daily  bread  of  both,  unfor- 
tunately she  could  also  please  the  idle  who  eat  bread  without  earning  it  for  any- 
body. 

Though  her  cunning  hands  relieved  her  mother  by  sharing  her  task,  her  youth- 
ful form  attracted  the  looks  of  the  idlers  whose  only  task  is  pleasure. 


122  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

Her  youth  was  precocious.  It  was  a  beautiful  early  fruit,  such  as  the  Parisian 
hot-house  produces  prematurely  under  the  influence  peculiar  to  great  cities,  the 
current  of  ideas,  labor,  and  even  want,  which  rapidly  ripens  the  subject,  when  it 
does  not  rot  it,  for  the  thousand  and  one  hands  always  ready  to  pluck  it. 

At  thirteen,  then,  Marie  was  or  seemed  sixteen ;  and  already  she  was  called  the 
rose  of  the  faubourg.  She  already  went  to  the  clothing  shops  to  carry  patterns  and 
bring  back  orders  which  she  executed,  Louise  aiding,  successfully. 

The  mother,  who  followed,  as  she  had  said  ercwhile  at  the  parish-church,  her 
religion  by  birth  and  habit,  had  wished  Marie  to  make  her  first  communion,  and 
had  sent  her  to  catechism  and  consequently  to  confession,  but  at  the  Church  of 
Saint-Roch,  where  her  husband  had  been  blessed,  and  not  Saint-Paul,  her  parish- 
church,  where  she  had  been  received  so  badly. 

Marie  had  returned  in  tears. 

Her  mother,  on  seeing  her  with  her  white  cheeks  and  .red  eyes,  became  alarmed 
and  asked  her  why  she  had  wept. 

Marie  did  not  answer. 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  urged  Louise. 

"Nothing,  mother,"  said  the  child. 

"It  is  your  first  lie." 

"Whyl"  ventured  Jean,  with  a  shake  of  his  head,  "she  comes  from  confession." 

"Is  it  repentance?"  said  Louise. 

The  child,  either  from  shame  or  from  fear  of  grieving  her  mother,  said  nothing, 
but  took  her  work  and  labored  in  silence. 

"  There  is  something  beneath  all  this,"  said  Jean  to  Madame  Didier,  "  and  in 
your  place"  .... 

"  Has  Monsieur  the  priest  sent  you  away  for  lack  of  memory,  attention,  or  obe- 
dience? Tell  me,  I  beg  of  you." 

"  I  will  not  go  back  to  confession." 

"Bah!  a  false  shame.  Monsieur  the  prieet  has  scolded  and  punished  you. 
But,  dear  little  mule,  don't  you  see  that,  in  refusing  to  speak  and  obey  your 
mother,  you  are  committing  another  fault,  a  sin,  for  which  you  will  be  obliged  to 
return  to  confession  and  get  absolution  in  order  to  make  your  communion?" 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  not  make  it." 

"  Whatl  at  your  age?  But  it  is  necessary.  You  are  thirteen,  and  we  have  no 
time  to  lose  at  catechism ;  we  must  work  all  day  long,  for  I  feel  that  I  am  growing 
worse." 

"Yes,"  said  Jean,  "he  who  labors  prays." 

"Come,  then,  speak  I  Does  Monsieur  the  priest  refuse  you?  Do  you  say  your 
prayers  badly  ?  If  that  is  why  you  are  sent  away,  go  back  to  the  church  and  ask 
pardon  of  Monsieur  the  priest;  or  else  I  will  go  myself,  sick  as  I  am,  to  have  an 
explanation  with  him." 


The  Strong-Box.  123 

"No,  mother,  I  will  go  tomorrow  to  take  the  sacrament  quickly,  and  then  work 
with  you  and  for  you,  in  order  that  you  may  rest  and  that  I  may  leave  you  no 
more." 

And  they  kissed  each  other  effusively. 

Jean  bade  them  good  night,  still  shaking  his  head  and  repeating : 

"There  is  something  beneath  all  this,  and  I  am  going  to  find  it  outl" 

The  next  night,  her  day's  work  done,  Marie,  out  of  filial  piety,  went  to  confess. 

A  word  before  her  arrival. 

Is  there  iii  the  world  an  institution  more  infamous  and  an  outrage  on  morals 
more  flagrant  than  the  confessional? 

Auricular  confession  has  come  with  celibacy  for  the  greatest  glory  of  God,  the 
priesthood,  and  the  sanctuary.  It  is  the  crowning  of  the  edifice. 

Formerly  confession  was  public ;  it  was  a  delusion  rendered  by  the  private  con- 
science to  the  public  conscience,  distressing  no  doubt,  but  worthy  of  the  remission 
of  sin.  Confession,  like  gambling,  has  gained  nothing  by  secresy,  and  this  mon- 
strous clerical  custom  causes  the  most  shameless  and  pernicious  of  immoralities  to 
be,  not  only  tolerated,  but  approved,  consecrated,  and  paid  for. 

I  call  this  the  most  fatal  injury  to  the  family  and  to  society.  It  is  never  good 
for  man  to  have  God  for  a  rival.  The  priest,  representing  God,  always  possesses 
at  least  half  of  woman,  if  not  all  of  her.  Society  is  strong  only  through  the  family, 
its  foundation;  in  this  lies  the  superiority  of  Protestant  nations.  A  warning  to 
peoples  who  confess. 

A  man  and  a  woman  who  come  too  near  each  other  at  night  on  a  bench  are 
arrested,  convicted  of  an  outrage  on  modesty,  and  sentenced.  A  man  and  a  woman 
may  meet  with  impunity  in  a  church  and,  what  is  more,  in  a  box,  —  Pandora's  box- 
La  Poubelle  is  nothing ! 

The  greatest  prose-writer  of  the  epoch,  Paul-Louis  Courier,  who  was  murdered 
partly  for  this,  wrote  an  admirable  page  against  confession,  concluding  by  saying 
that,  out  of  many  priests  whom  he  had  known,  he  had  met  only  one  old  one  frank 
enough  to  say :  "  I  have  ended  my  life  without  transgression,  but  I  should  not  like 
to  begin  it  over  again  ! " 

Do  we  realize  indeed  that  we  allow  our  young  wives  and  even  our  young  daugh- 
ters to  shut  themselves  up  on  their  knees  in  a  religious  niche,  on  their  knees  beside 
a  young  priest,  a  bachelor,  idle,  urged  on  by  high  living,  excess  of  force,  and  priva- 
tion, both  alone  in  the  darkness,  head  to  head,  mouth  to  mouth,  and  discussing 
conjugal  questions.  As  well  put  a  match  under  straw  without  fearing  fire,  or 
bread  before  a  fasting  man  without  fear  of  his  tooth ! 

Even  the  soldier,  who  has  made  no  vow  of  chastity,  would  be  better  than  the 
priest. 

Would  one  expose  his  wife  and  daughter  to  the  same  risk  shut  up  in  a  chamber 
even  with  a  friend  ? 


124  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

It  would  be  neither  decent  nor  prudent. 

Bat  here  again  there  would  be  a  counterpoise.  The  man  of  the  world  has  cer- 
tain natural  reserves  through  the  legitimate  satisfaction  of  his  wants,  through 
respect  for  the  family  of  another,  through  love  of  his  own, — in  a  word,  througk 
community  of  duties. 

But  the  priest,  picked,  chosen,  like  the  conscript,  neither  infirm  nor  deformed, 
young,  virgin,  and  —  let  us  repeat — idle,  forced  by  rich  food,  idleness,  and  conti- 
nence, is  in  a  continuous,  endemic,  and  constitutional  state  of  desire;  and  if  there 
is  a  single  one  among  them  all,  as  Pius  IX  says,  who  can  conquer  nature,  it  is  that 
of  Paul-Louis  Courier. 

So,  having  eaten  a  good  dinner,  very  stimulating  and,  thanks  to  the  benedicite, 
thoroughly  digested,  assimilated,  and  converted  into  chyle,  the  fat  and  lusty  abbe 
Ventron,  full  of  the  warmest  products  of  the  sunshine,  wines  and  viands,  in  full 
possession  of  his  animal  spirits,  was  seated  in  his  box  in  the  corner  of  a  chapel  of 
the  Virgin,  at  the  back  part  of  the  church,  in  the  shadow  of  the  arches  and  far 
from  the  lamp  of  the  chorus,  which,  moreover,  burns  but  does  not  light. 

All  was  silence  and  gloom,  profound  mystery  around  him,  and  he  was  about  to 
fulfil  the  sacred  duty  of  the  priest,  exercise  his  holy  ministry  authorized  and  sala- 
ried by  the  State,  lend  ear  to  his  flock,  counsel  them,  guide  them,  give  them  moral 
lessons,  purify  them,  absolve  some,  reprove  others,  distribute  absolution  to  these, 
repentance  to  those,  —  in  short,  confess  them. 

For  this  rehearsal  of  the  last  judgment  the  representative  of  God  sat  indiffer- 
ently well  upon  his  cramped  throne,  filled  with  his  digestive  apparatus.  Then  the 
anointed  of  the  Lord  blew  his  nose,  coughed,  spat,  took  snuff,  filled  his  lungs  full 
of  air,  and  at  last  lent  ear  to  the  first  of  a  score  of  catechised  who  filed  past  him 
indifferently  and  rapidly,  like  ordinary  offenders  in  a  police  court. 

Marie,  who,  through  reluctance  to  take  her  place,  had  allowed  all  the  others  to 
pass,  still  hesitating,  but  fearing  to  displease  or  disappoint  her  mother,  decided  at 
last  to  kneel. 

This  catechumen  was  different.  The  priest  took  no  more  snuff.  He  no  longer 
gave  ear.  He  applied  his  lips  to  the  grating  that  scarcely  separated  him  from 
Marie's  blonde  head,  until  he  almost  touched,  until  he  even  smelt,  the  child's  flesh. 

"  Say  your  Confiteor" 

Marie  recited : 

"I  confess  to  God  the  omnipotent,  to  the  blessed  Virgin".  .  . 

"  There,  that  will  do  I    Amen  !    What  do  you  confess  ?  " 

"My  disobedience  to  you." 

"A  great  sin,  my  child.     And  why  not  obey  me?" 

"  Because  you  have  made  me  cry." 

"Ah!  it  is  for  your  good,  Marie.  Between  you  and  me,  follower  and  priest, 
there  must  be  frankness,  confidence,  and  secresy.  God  is  an  enemy  of  pride  and  of 


The  Strong-Sox.  125 

falsehood,  two  great  sins,  two  mortal  sins,  punished  with  the  eternal  fires  of  hell, 
two  blasphemies  in  fact,  for  God  is  truth  as  well  as  humility." 

The  young  girl  remained  silent. 

"  He  is  love  also,"  continued  the  priest.  "  I  have  already  asked  you  more  than 
once  this  question :  before  uniting  yourself  to  God  by  the  holy  communion,  have 
you  ever  thought  of  this  holy  alliance?  Have  you  ever  dreamed  of  the  sweet 
Jesus  in  his  human  form?  At  least,  have  you  ever  seen  your  guardian  angel  cover 
you  with  his  wings?" 

"  No,  father,  never." 

"Then  I  fear  you  have  had  visions  less  pure,  desires  more  earthly;  perhaps  you 
have  thought  of  marriage,  dreamed  of  a  carnal  tie  with  some  lad  of  your  age. 
Doubtless  you  have  had  conversations,  readings,  caresses,  kisses,  oscula  viri,"  and 
he  spoke  the  Latin  of  the  "Confessors'  Manual,"  of  Monseigneur  the  bishop 
Bouvier. 

"  I  do  not  comprehend  you,  father,"  said  the  poor  child,  in  an  agitated  voice,  for- 
tunately understanding  the  priest's  French  scarcely  better  than  his  Latin. 

"Come  with  me  into  the  sacristy,"  said  he;  "I  will  exorcise  the  demon  of  pride, 
I  will  evoke  the  guardian  angel ;  come  into  heaven,  my  dear  daughter,  I  will  give 
you  a  book  illustrated  with  holy  images,  and  I  will  explain  all  this  to  you.  Yester- 
day you  refused." 

"  No,  father,  I  do  not  want  to,"  said  Marie,  instinctively  rebelling. 

"  Obey,  rebel,"  said  the  theological  ogre,  "  if  you  wish  to  make  your  first  com- 
munion. I  am  your  spiritual  father.  You  have  no  other." 

"  That's  where  you  make  your  mistake,"  cried  a  terrible  voice. 

Then  a  man,  standing  at  the  corner  of  the  confessional  and  having  heard  all, 
took  Marie  by  the  arm,  saying  to  her  in  a  low  tone :  "  Silence !  "  and  then  braced 
himself  with  all  his  might  between  the  wall  and  the  box  and  overturned  the  con- 
fessional upon  the  confessor. 

At  the  noise  of  the  fall  and  the  cries  of  the  priest  enclosed  like  a  turtle  in  its 
shell,  all  the  defenders  of  the  sacristy  came  running  up,  the  Swiss  with  his  cane 
and  the  beadles  with  their  maces;  and,  seeing  the  box  overturned  upon  its  precious 
contents  and  then  a  man  escaping  with  the  young  girl,  they  tried  to  stop  them. 

But  the  man,  arming  himself  with  a  chair  and  swinging  it  over  his  head,  in  a  com- 
bat such  as  is  not  described  in  Boileau's  Lutrin,  piled  the  beadles  on  top  of  the 
Swiss,  while  the  warden  called  for  the  police. 

The  police  arrived  too  late,  as  usual,  —  that  is,  when  the  man  and  child  had  left 
the  church. 

Then,  fortunately  for  the  avenger  of  public  morality,  the  incident  had  gathered 
a  group  and  a  crowd.  The  man  told  what  he  had  done  and  why  he  had  done  it; 
and,  the  people  applauding,  the  police,  who  were  not  the  police  of  Charles  X,  and 
who  realized,  moreover,  that  they  were  few  in  number,  either  dared  not  or  could 


126  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

not  arrest  Jean,  or  even  prevent  him  from  going  back  into  the  church  with  the 
crowd,  taking  the  confessional,  carrying  it  out  upon  the  steps,  and  setting  fire  to  it. 

The  confessor,  of  course,  was  no  longer  inside. 

The  man  took  the  child  home  to  her  mother. 

"Ah!  it  is  youl"  said  Louise  to  Marie;  "then  you  met  Father  Jean?" 

"I  beg  pardon,  excuse  me,  Madame,  1  did  not  meet  Mam'zelle  Marie;  I  followed 
her,  and  for  her  good;  and  I  bring  her  back  to  you  none  too  soon  .  .  .  and  I  re- 
store her  to  you  safe  and  sound,  but  I  hope  that  you  will  not  send  her  again  to 
confession." 

"Why?" 

"  Why,  because  it  is  like  sending  Little  Red  Riding  Hood  to  the  wolf  1  because 
that  scoundrel  of  a  priest  has  said  things  to  your  child  which  she  fortunately  did 
not  understand,  but  which  would  make  you  blush  to  hear  and  me  to  repeat  to  you." 

"Jean  is  right,  mother;  I  will  never  go  back  there;  and  I  will  not  make  my 
first  communion." 

"What?" 

"Do  you  wish  her  to  make  it  with  the  priest  rather  than  with  God?" 

"What  do  you  mean,  Father  Jean?" 

"I  mean  that  your  priest  would  have  stolen  your  child  but  for  me;  that,  if  I  had 
a  child,  I  would  rather  entrust  her  to  a  convict  than  to  a  priest ;  and  that  it  is  bet- 
ter to  be  damned  with  the  devil  than  saved  in  the  Ventron  Paradise.  Ah !  pardon 
me,  Madame  Didier,  I  swore  to  poor  Jacques  that  I  would  watch  over  her  .... 
and  over  you ;  and  if  I  had  arrived  too  late  to  save  her  from  the  priest,  I  would 
have  killed  him." 

"  Ah  1  my  God !  in  whom  can  we  trust  ?  I  will  not  send  her  again !  Father 
Jean !  thank  you !  thank  you  1 " 

And  Jean  went  to  bed,  like  a  good  guardian,  having  done  his  duty  against  the 
confessional  and  the  brothel,  having  saved  Marie's  honor  as  he  had  saved  Canaille's 
life. 


The  Strong-gox.  127 


CHAPTER  V. 


THE  CHECK. 

There  wae  one  person  in  the  English  quarter,  near  the  Madeleine,  who  was  not 
happy, — a  light-coraplexioned  son  of  Albion  landed  in  Paris,  Master  Jack,  a  jockey 
who  had  come  expressly  to  ride  Frinlair's  horse  at  the  Longchamps  races. 

The  unfortunate  Jack  was  what  is  called  in  training  in  the  language  or  slang  of 
the  turf,  a  slang  which  we4have  borrowed  from  the  English,  as  in  the  case  of  the 
word  redingote,  riding  coat. 

That  is  to  say,  Jack  was  preparing  to  make  the  most  of  his  master's  horse,  not 
to  improve  the  race  of  horses,  but  to  damage  the  purse  of  men. 

It  is  so  little  the  object  of  races,  or  courses  as  we  call  them  in  French,  to  improve 
the  equine  race  that  they  have  succeeded  in  making  horses  without  neck  enough 
to  feed  in  pasture  or  belly  enough  to  digest,  arid  with  only  such  legs  as  will  enable 
them  to  run  fast,  but  not  long,  —  which  is  called  progress. 

Similarly,  always  under  pretext  of  improving  the  race,  the  makers  of  meat  and 
fat  have  manufactured  cattle  without  horns  —  what  will  the  bull-fighters  say? — 
and  without  legs,  all  belly,  balls  of  flesh  and  suet  for  John  Bull's  puddings  and 
roast  beef. 

Ah !  when  the  English  turn  their  attention  to  anything,  what  a  creation  1  what 
a  world !  what  master-pieces  1  all  for  the  mouth  and  the  pocket  1  the  last  word  of 
civilization. 

But  if  the  animal  suffers  through  this  British  mania  which  we  are  beginning  to 
import  into  France,  the  human  race  suffers  still  more  ....  in  so  far  as  the  race 
can  be  represented  by  a  jockey. 

To  an  extent  he  doubtless  does  represent  it ;  and  for  this  reason  we  refer  to  the 
miseries  of  poor  Jack. 

The  unfortunate  biped  had  submitted  himself  for  a  fortnight  to  a  real  martyr- 
dom in  order  to  fit  himself  as  thoroughly  as  possible  to  mount  a  quadruped. 

In  the  first  place,  he  had  to  be  weighed  regularly,  morning  and  evening,  to  de- 
tect the  slightest  increase  of  weight  and  stop  it  as  soon  as  possible. 

He  was  visited  by  a  doctor,  who  prescribed  accordingly. 

Neither  roast  beef  nor  pudding  I  Lord  1  Neither  stout  nor  porter  I  Only  small 
beer  and  oatmeal,  Great  God  1 


128  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

And,  coupled  with  this  regime  of  abstinence,  a  regime  of  continence  ! 

No  expenditure  without  receipts  1  No  Venus  without  Ceres  or  Bacchus !  Diet 
in  mensa  necessitated  diet  in  toro.  Forbidden  to  see  his  wife  ! 

At  last,  the  day  of  the  races  having  arrived,  ready  to  mount  his  horse,  with 
jacket  and  cap  of  Frinlair's  colors,  he  had  been  weighed  for  the  last  time  and  found 
in  condition.  Good  weight,  — that  is,  reduced  to  two-thirds  of  his  natural  weight. 
Such  is  the  desire  of  amelioration  .  .  .  and  speculation. 

Homicide  by  wholesale  is  punished,  but  is  permissible  by  retail.     See  Merlatti. 

Canaille,  national  and  patriotic,  and  out  of  personal  antagonism  also,  had  bet 
against  Frinlair's  English  horse  and  jockey.  Perfecting  also  the  equine  and 
human  races  of  France,  he  had  entered  a  French  horse  and  jockey  who,  unfortu- 
nately less  patriotic  than  his  master,  had  consented  to  sell  himself  to  Frinlair, 
himself  and  his  horse,  which  he  had  drugged;  and  the  traitor  allowed  himself  to 
be  beaten  on  the  turf,  preferring  much  gold  without  glory  to  much  glory  and  little 
gold. 

Thus  Camille  and  his  horse  were  improved  by  the  Longchamps  races. 

Frinlair's  jockey,  or  rather  his  English  horse,  had  beaten  by  a  head  the  French 
horse,  dosed  and  even  held  in  at  the  end  of  the  race  by  its  treacherous  rider. 

An  enormous  stake  —  these  races  are  only  a  gambling  scheme  —  had  been 
wagered  by  Camille  against  Frinlair,  and  Camille  had  lost. 

The  bet  had  been  made  upon  trust,  —  a  debt  of  honor. 

Among  those  who  witnessed  the  race  were  the  baron,  and  his  daughter  in  a  daz- 
zling toilette,  sitting  with  her  father  on  the  back  seat  of  a  four-in-hand  and  applaud- 
ing Frinlair's  triumph. 

The  victory  decided,  the  four  horses,  driven  at  a  gallop,  took  the  baron  back  to 
the  hotel. 

No  sooner  had  he  arrived  than  he  went  up  to  Canaille's  room  and  placed  a  paper 
on  his  desk  so  that  he  would  see  it  on  entering. 

And  scarcely  had  he  gone  out  when  Camille  entered,  showing  all  the  signs  of 
the  keenest  vexation. 

In  the  first  place  his  pride  was  involved.  He  had  been  beaten  both  by  Frinlair 
and  in  the  presence  of  Mazagran,  whom  ha  had  definitively  taken  and  at  great 
cost  by  way  of  compensation  for  the  trick  played  on  this  good  girl.  She  took  her 
revenge  in  her  own  way,  by  ruining  him. 

His  love  —  I  beg  pardon — his  loves  cost  him  the  very  eyes  in  his  head. 

A  basket  pierced,  and  with  several  holes ;  disputed  or  rather  divided,  as  Figaro 
says,  between  politics  and  pleasure ;  rarely  sleeping  in  his  own  bed ;  sober,  how- 
ever, if  he  ate  alone, — his  good  health  held  out,  but  not  so  his  fortune.  Gertrude, 
tainted  by  Claire,  had  ceased  giving  him  advice  to  which  he  did  not  listen.  The 
baron  was  too  indulgent  to  say  a  word,  and  Camille  inherited  from  his  mother  a 
contempt  for  money,  turning  up  his  nose  at  it.  But  every  virtue  has  its  vice.  She 


The  Strong-Box.  129 

was  generous;   he  was  wasteful,  aud  in  every  direction.     Love,  horses,  wagers, 

suppers,  he  literally  ran  to  his  ruin and  this  time,  in  fact,  even  honor  was 

compromised. 

How  pay  this  debt  to  Frinlair?  he  said  to  himself.  Twenty  thousand  dollars  I 
I  have  exhausted  everything  .  .  .  and  this  week  has  been  a  week  of  disasters.  I 
have  bled  my  guardian  at  every  vein!  What's  to  be  done  now?  Yet  by  some 
means  or  other  a  way  must  be  found!  Not  to  pay  Frinlair  is  out  of  the  question. 
To  fail  him  is  worse  than  to  fail  others.  N  ot  pay  him !  I  would  rather  take  the 
leap  and  marry ! 

Suddenly,  casting  his  eyes  mechanically  on  his  desk,  he  saw  the  paper. 

"What's  that?" 

A  check  for  twenty  thousand  dollars  on  the  bank,  payable  on  demand,  to  the 
bearer,  with  a  blank  left  for  the  name  of  the  payee  and  signed.  It  had  only  to  be 
filled  out.  That  could  be  done;  the  paper  lay  waiting  for  it,  all  ready  to  be 
cashed.  A  frightful  temptation  seized  Camille;  the  struggle  was  long  and  keen. 
Who  had  put  this  paper  there?  The  baron.  How?  Why?  A  test?  Doubtless 
a  trap?  Oh,  no,  to  secure  the  marriage  ?  And  he  turned  the  check  over  in  every 
direction.  At  last  he  took  his  pen,  and  was  ju^st  on  the  point  of  writing  his  name, 
when  he  cried : 

"  Ah !  the  name  that  she  bore,  that  she  taught  me  to  write  on  a  different  sort  of 
checks,  bread-checks ! " 

And  he  threw  down  his  pen,  placed  the  check  on  the  desk  again,  rang  for  Leon 
who  came,  and  said  quickly : 

"  Ask  the  baron  to  come  here.  Tell  him  that  I  am  indisposed,  and  that  I  desire 
to  speak  to  him." 

The  valet  bowed  and  went  out,  and  soon  the  baron  appeared  in  alarm. 

"What's  the  matter,  Camille?"  he  said. 

Camille,  taking  up  the  check  with  the  ends  of  his  fingers  and  showing  it  to  the 
baron,  said : 

"  You  recognize  this  blank  check ;  you  have  put  it  here  I  know  not  why ;  but 
take  it  away ;  it  will  only  be  lost  or  fall  into  the  hands  of  forgers." 

"  But,  my  dear  friend  ".  .  . 

"  I  do  not  want  it !     Prodigal,  yes ;  but  not  guilty." 

"  Ah  I  guilty  .  .  .  with  me  1 " 

"I  might  be  impelled  to  commit  a  forgery.  Decidedly,  dear  guardian,  your 
kindness  will  make  me  distrust  you,"  said  the  ward. 

"  But  you  have  twenty  thousand  dollars  to  pay  this  very  day,"  said  the  baron, 
vexed  and  insisting.  "  It  is  either  money  or  honor." 

"  I  know  it  ....  but  since  you  speak  of  honor ;  wait,  I  will  accept  this  check, 
but  on  condition  of  earning  it." 

"How?" 


130  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"  Well,  I  abandon  my  life  of  follies  and  dangers ;  I  will  leave  the  city  of  pleasure, 
Paris,  and  go  to  the  city  of  work,  London,  to  manage  our  branch  house.  The 
manager  has  sent  you  his  resignation  ;  I  will  take  his  place  at  the  same  pay ;  then 
I  shall  be  able  to  pay  my  debt  of  honor  without  dishonoring  myself." 

"  Separate  from  us,  my  dear  Camille,  leave  us  I  What  are  you  thinking  of  ? 
What  would  Claire  say  ?  What  would  become  of  my  dearest  wish,  your  marriage 
with  my  daughter?  Disturb  thus  all  my  wisest  as  well  as  dearest  plans  1  Never  1 
No,  never  will  I  allow  your  departure.  Exile  yourself,  deprive  yourself  of  Paris  to 
earn  money  with  which  to  pay  Frinlair  ?  But  you  are  not  —  I  beg  pardon  —  we 
are  not  reduced  to  that  point,  thank  God  1  I  do  not  calculate  in  dealing  with  you, 
Camille,  and  if  I  have  thus  offended  you,  I  ask  you  to  excuse  me.  As  your  guar- 
dian I  must  look  out  for  your  fortune,  but  I  can  also  reassure  you  as  to  your  re- 
sources ;  and  were  they  insufficient,  you  could  still  rely  on  mine.  So  frankly  keep 
these  twenty  thousand  dollars  to  your  account  and  in  your  name,  which  I  write  in 
plain  letters,  with  my  own  hand,  before  your  two  eyes,  scrupulous  madcap  1  Here  1  * 

And  he  handed  him  the  check  made  out  in  his  name. 

"  With  that  understanding,  all  right  then  1  Thank  you  1  Frinlair  will  be  hon- 
orably paid,  and  I  honestly  acquitted." 

An  hour  later  Frinlair  had  his  money  and  Camille  his  receipt,  the  latter  capable 
now  of  marrying  gracefully  the  daughter  of  so  good  a  guardian,  who  beat  all  the 
American  uncles  in  the  plays  of  Scribe. 

Meanwhile  Gertrude,  worked  upon  by  Claire  and  the  abbtf  Ventron,  still 
thwarted  her  husband's  plan,  favored  the  young  count,  and  had  even  invited  him 
to  a  party  given  expressly  for  him,  in  his  honor,  and  in  the  interest  of  his  marriage. 


The  Strong-Box.  181 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  PLOT. 

With  the  stubbornness  characteristic  of  a  lamb  from  Berri  and  a  pious  one  at 
that,  Gertrude  persisted  in  her  design  of  giving  her  adopted  daughter  to  the  Count 
de  Frinlair,  in  spite  of  the  wish  of  her  husband,  \vho  intended  her  for  cousin  Ca- 
naille. She  was  resolved. 

Decidedly  God  and  Claire,  to  say  nothing  of  the  king,  were  opposed  to  this 
lowest  of  marriages,  impious,  vulgar,  and  regicidal. 

On  the  day  after  the  scandal  of  Saint-Koch  the  Baroness  Hoffmann,  her  daughter 
Claire,  and  their  unfailing  confessor  were  together  in  the  parlor,  conferring  on  this 
subject  with  mysterious  animation. 

"  My  poor  child,"  said  Gertrude,  "  the  plan  pleases  me  as  much  as  it  frightens 
me,  and  really  I  do  not  dare  ".  .  . 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  the  abbe",  solemnly.  "  God  is  stronger  than  the  baron.  His 
will  be  done  I  " 

"  Ah  I  your  reverence,  I  shall  be  Madame  Berville  ....  ha !  ha  1 "  exclaimed 
Claire,  with  a  nervous  laugh  that  broke  in  her  throat. 

"No,"  answered  her  mother,  "you  shall  be  Countess  de  Frinlair  or".  .  . 

She  did  not  finish,  maintaining  a  stormy  silence,  walking  back  and  forth  in  her 
excitement  as  if  to  give  herself,  merely  by  physical  motion,  the  moral  strength  to 
combat  her  husband. 

Claire,  sitting  on  the  sofa,  was  no  less  agitated. 

The  priest  alone  preserved  the  coolness  befitting  a  director  of  consciences. 

The  darkness  of  evening,  like  a  rising  tide,  little  by  little  invaded  the  sumptuous 
parlor. 

As  the  seconds  went  by,  the  room  became  shaded  with  a  deeper  tint.  This  royal 
luxury,  worthy  of  the  first  banker  of  the  court,  became  less  loud  and  gained  in 
grandeur  what  it  lost  in  brilliancy. 

The  vast  apartment  no  longer  dazzled,  it  impressed ;  the  ceiling,  the  mouldings, 
and  all  the  ornaments  seemed  to  float  in  a  magic  atmosphere;  the  chandelier  was 
more  sombre  in  its  gleaming.  The  golds,  too  resplendent  by  daylight,  assumed  a 
dead  tone  which  concentrated  their  richness. 

The  Boules,  master-pieces  of  a  past  art,  marvels  of  a  dream  of  the  "  Thousand 


132  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

and  One  Nights,"  and  such  as  the  Louvre  itself  no  longer  offered  to  the  king, 
seemed,  in  the  penumbra,  endowed  with  a  fantastic  life.  The  pictures  became 
kaleidoscopes;  the  family-portraits  dissolving  views  in  frames  gilded  with  fairy- 
like  illusions. 

All  that  was  fixed  seemed  to  move  and  change,  thus  exciting  more  and  more  the 
strained  nerves  of  the  two  women. 

An  idea  of  envy,  common  and  natural  to  the  fortunate  of  this  world  who  are  dy- 
ing of  weariness  and  idleness  in  the  enchantment  of  their  luxury,  then  came  to 
Claire's  mind : 

"  There  is  no  one  to  thwart  her  in  her  inclinations.     She  is  very  happy,  she  1 " 

"Of  whom  do  you  speak?"  asked  Gertrude. 

"  I  am  thinking  of  our  little  seamstress  who  goes  off  so  contented  with  the  roll 
of  silk  which  she  takes  away  for  her  work.  I  envy  this  Marie,"  continued  Claire. 

Did  the  baroness  remember  that  the  banker  Berville  also  envied  his  collector, 
when  the  latter  was  dying  in  defence  of  his  receipts  ?  .  .  . 

She  shuddered. 

"Be  still,"  said  she;  "it  is  offensive  to  God  thus  to  censure  his  designs  by  ingra- 
titude. It  seems  to  me  that  his  vengeance — pardon  me,  his  justice  will  visit  us 
with  some  misfortune." 

And  the  baroness  sat  down  beside  Claire,  took  her  forehead  in  her  two  hands, 
thought  a  minute,  and  said  feverishly: 

"Must  it  be,  yes  or  no?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  priest,  "  it  is  an  exceptional  case !  For  great  evils  great  remedies  I 
The  end  justifies  the  means.  Everything  in  the  interest  of  heaven  and  for  the 
glory  of  God ! " 

"  That  or  the  convent,  mother  1 "  cried  Claire. 

And  no  longer  containing  herself,  she  threw  herself  back  upon  the  sofa,  weeping 
and  sobbing. 

Gertrude,  moved  by  this  spoiled  child's  sorrow,  bent  over  toward  Claire  and  took 
her  in  her  arms,  fondling  and  caressing  her. 

"There,  it  is  over,  isn't  it,  my  pet?  Go  to  your  room;  I  am  going  to  talk  with 
your  father.  You  will  be  satisfied  with  me." 

"  Thank  you,  good  mamma,"  said  Claire,  effusively.     "  Courage  1 " 

And  she  went  out,  counting  on  her  mother. 

Gertrude  at  once  rang  and  sent  for  the  baron,  who  soon  arrived,  ever  attentive 
and  gallant  toward  his  wife. 

"  Here  alone  and  in  the  twilight,  and  with  Monsieur  the  priest,"  said  he,  smiling ; 
"a  conference.  .  .  .  and  you  call  me  in.  ...  a  case  of  conscience?  France  is  not 
Spain,  and  husbands  here  have  a  consultative  voice.  What  is  the  question  ?  Let 
us  see,  my  dear.  I  am  listening." 

And,  lighting  a  candelabrum,  he  added  pleasantly : 


The  Strong-Sox.  133 

"  Let  there  be  light.  Then  my  eyes  will  do  service  as  well  as  my  ears.  Now  go 
on,"  said  he  at  last,  in  a  more  serious  tone. 

Gertrude  hesitated : 

"  Will  you  be  as  reasonable  as  you  are  charming?" 

"What  do  you  mean,  my  friend?"  said  the  banker,  smiling  but  attentive. 

"  Well,  seriously  and  finally,  what  is  your  last  word  in  regard  ...  to  your  .  . 
to  our  daughter?" 

"Claire?"  said  the  baron,  slowly,  to  give  himself  time  for  reflection. 

"Yes,  since  God  haa  not  granted  me  the  grace  that  he  granted  to  Sarah,  I 
must  say:  Our  daughter.  .  .  .  Well?" 

"  I  wish  her  to  be  happy,  nothing  more  or  less." 

"So  do  I.     And  I  know  that  she  does  not  love  Canaille." 

"She  will  love  him.  I  have  told  you  repeatedly  that  I  have  decided  upon  this 
marriage,  necessary  in  our  common  interest  and  for  the  happiness  of  us  all." 

"  Happiness,  no !  interest,  perhaps !  So,  then,  the  gross  word  is  out  at  last  1  The 
strong-box ! " 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  he,  with  an  ever-increasing  firmness.  "  I  know  that  figures 
irritate  your  nerves,  my  generous  dear.  But  then  a  million  is  a  million;  it  is 
C  lake's  dowry  .  .  .  and  I  must  look  to  it.  This  marriage  leaves  it  in  the  strong- 
box, as  you  say,  in  our  treasury.  This  marriage  therefore  is  indispensable.  Con- 
sequently, my  dear,  send  out  your  invitations  for  the  engagement  party." 

"  And  in  this  account  your  child's  heart  figures  as  an  item.  I  protest,  Monsieur, 
in  her  behalf  and  in  mine,  against  this  abuse,  of  paternal  and  conjugal  power, 
against  this  marriage  objectionable  from  every  standpoint, — character,  opinion, 
and  religion." 

"And  yet  indispensable,"  replied  the -baron;  "that  is  my  last  word." 

And  he  bowed  and  went  out,  for  the  first  time  inflexible  before  his  wife's  will. 

Gertrude,  Ventron,  and  Claire,  who  had  come  back,  looked  at  each  other  in 
amazement  at  first,  and  then  took  heart  again. 

Claire  was  the  first  to  revolt : 

"  Gaston  nevertheless  1 " 

The  priest,  more  thoughtful,  said : 

"  What  inexplicable  and  mysterious  resistance !  We  shall  have  much  trouble  in 
conquering." 

"  Have  faith,  your  reverence,"  said  Gertrude.  And,  more  royalist  than  the  king, 
she  cried :  "  God  helping,  we  will  conquer  1 ".  .  . 

Then  the  coup  d'etat  was  decided  upon. 


134  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  ORATORY. 

Not  without  difficulty  had  the  baroness  been  able  to  obtain  the  baron's  consent 
to  the  invitation  of  Frinlair  to  Canaille's  engagement  party. 

Every  time  that  this  name  was  brought  to  his  hearing  in  conversation,  he  became 
horrified;  every  time  that  he  heard  the  young  attache  of.  the  embassy  spoken  of,  he 
bristled  up,  in  anger  or  in  consternation.  It  was  more  than  an  ordinary  aversion, 
it  was  a  repulsion  as  absolute  as  the  attraction  which  he  felt  for  Camille. 

Gertrude,  the  abbd  Ventron,  and  Claire  had  used  all  their  strength  and  strategy 
to  overcome  the  baron's  repugnance. 

Claire  had  shrewdly  invoked  her  boarding-school  friendship.  She  had  not  said 
a  word  of  the  brother;  she  had  spoken  only  of  the  sister.  And  as  the  baron  had 
made  the  mistake,  so  far  as  his  cause  was  concerned,  of  allowing  the  sister,  Claire 
then  had  concluded : 

"How  invite  the  sister  without  the  brother?" 

The  abbd  Ventron  had  spoken  only  of  the  high  royal  and  papal  relations  of  the 
Frinlair  family,  naturally  without  making  the  slightest  allusion  to  Claire's  love. 

As  for  Gertrude,  she,  on  the  contrary,  had  placed  squarely  before  her  husband 
her  prejudices  and  resolutions  against  Camille  who  was  only  rich  and  for  how  long? 
She  could  not  understand  the  baron's  inexplicable  objections  to  the  invitation  of 
so  pious  a  young  man,  a  model  of  conduct  and  virtue,  whom  it  was  well  to  cultivate 
and  with  whom  Camille  especially  had  everything  to  gain. 

"  Except  his  money,"  the  baron  had  retorted,  thinking  of  the  check. 

She  had  finished,  as  usual,  by  a  charge  at  full  speed  upon  the  democrats,  the 
atheists,  the  libertines,  enemies  of  God,  religion,  and  society,  and  against  the  baron 
himself,  who  had  disappointed  her  by  his  faith  in  Camille,  the  worst  of  all. 

And  the  discussion  had  become  a  dispute,  and  finally  the  baron,  weary  of  war 
and  even  fearing  another  nervous  crisis,  had  yielded. 

Count  Gaston  de  Frinlair,  heir  of  the  personage  who  had  supplanted  the  Duke 
de  Crillon-Garousse  in  his  estate,  had  the  family  traits.  He  inherited  from  his 
father  the  diplomatic  genius  and  profession. 

He  had  at  last  received  the  invitation  to  the  rout  sent  him  by  the  baroness,  im- 
pelled, as  we  have  seen,  to  do  him  this  honor  by  the  interest  of  Claire  and  the  abbe 
Ventron  and  by  her  own  inclination. 


The  Strong-Box.  135 

It  was  a  triple  coalition  iu  favor  of  Frinlair  against  Berville,  who  was  more  than 
indifferent,  and  against  the  baron,  who  was  alone  in  warmly  championing  Berville 
against  Frinlair. 

Evidently  the  chances,  in  spite  of  paternal  and  conjugal  omnipotence,  were  in 
favor  of  Frinlair.  What  woman  wants,  God  wants,  says  the  proverb.  But  what 
God  and  woman,  and  two  women,  want,  the  devil  himself  will  want. 

Yes,  but  how  to  present  himself  at  the  house  of  the  baroness,  where  he  ran  a  risk 
of  meeting  Cainille?  And  how  face  Camille  after  the  treacherous  pistol-shot? 

This  was  what  the  young  diplomat  asked  himself. 

Camille  had  not  demanded  satisfaction  of  the  traitor.  One  does  not  fight  with 
Judas;  one  is  content  to  let  him  hang  himself,  provided  he  h;ive  sufficient  con- 
science left. 

Conscience  and  diplomacy  are  incompatible;  remorse  did  not  torment  Frinlair, 
and  the  spirit  of  Talleyrand  inspired  him. 

A  diplomat  is  a  gentleman  who  lies  in  the  interest  of  his  country,  and  who  con- 
sequently can  lie  in  his  own  interest  also. 

Language  was  given  to  man — I  beg  pardon,  to  the  diplomat  —  to  disguise  his 
thought. 

Starting  from  all  the  axioms  of  his  sixth  class,  the  young  attache  wrote  this  let- 
ter to  Camille : 

"Dear  victim,  —  I  do  not  dare  to  say  dear  friend,  and  know  not  how  to  write  to 
you  after  the  crime  that  I  have  committed  against  the  cause  and  friendship.  My 
conduct  is  certainly  inexcusable,  but  not  inexplicable. 

"  That  is  why,  knowing  your  broad  mind,  I  dare  to  appeal  to  it.  You  know  my 
position ;  the  son  of  an  ambassador,  belonging  to  the  Court,  and  threatened  with 
arrest  in  company  with  the  others,  I  yielded  to  a  mad  fear  which  caused  me  to  lose 
my  head  and  my  heart. 

"I  saw  everything  compromised,  not  only  for  me,  but  for  my  father,  my  sister, 
and  all  my  relatives  destitute  of  fortune,  and  —  I  blush  to  confess  it — I  sacrificed 
you  to  my  family. 

"  You  who  so  dearly  loved  your  mother  perhaps  will  forgive  me  for  having  been 
so  weak  in  a  matter  that  concerned  mine ;  and  I  hope  that  you  will  not  refuse  me 
your  pity,  until  I  can  find  an  opportunity  to  regain  your  esteem  and  your  friend- 
ship." 

To  this  chancellor's  letter  Camille  simply  sent  the  following  answer : 

"I  pity  you and  I  hope  you  will  see  to  it  that  you  get  your  head 

broken  for  the  people  at  the  next  insurrection." 

This  reply,  in  which  for  the  first  time  and  forever  he  ceased  to  address  Frinlair 
in  the  language  of  intimate  friendship,  was  interpreted  by  the  young  diplomat  as 
meaning  indulgence  and  pardon.  So  he  resolved  to  accept  the  invitation  and  go 
to  Gertrude's  rout. 


136  The  Ray-Picker  of  Paris. 

The  Baroness  Hoffmann's  party  was  a  splendid  affair.  Her  husband's  refined 
bourgeoisie  had  raised  the  style  of  her  receptions;  and  the  abbe  Ventron,  an  accus- 
tomed attendant  of  such  worldly  festivities,  did  not  complain  of  them. 

This  evening,  risen  from  his  fall,  holier  than  ever,  thanks  to  a  sermon  against 
calumny,  and  free  from  certain  bruises  and  occasional  allusions  in  the  wicked 
newspapers  to  the  bruised  parts,  the  abbe  showed  even  more  discretion  and  reserve 
than  at  the  Berville  dinner,  not  speaking  to  the  ladies,  not  looking  at  any  in  par- 
ticular, his  Tartuffe's  handkerchief  always  in  his  hand,  addressing  only  the  mis- 
tress of  the  house  and  her  daughter,  his  attention  absorbed  by  the  ices  and  other 
refreshments  incessantly  passed  around  on  silver  trays. 

Gertrude  applauded  his  success,  which  seemed  to  her  the  triumph  of  God  him- 
self over  the  devil. 

The  baron  was  delighted  with  Camille,  who  had  consented  to  open  the  ball  with 
his  daughter. 

Claire  had  accepted,  making  a  frightfully  wry  face  at  Camille  and,  behind  her 
fan,  sweet  eyes  at  Gaston. 

Frinlair  was  thus  avenged  for  the  cold  welcome  given  him  by  the  baron  by 
Claire,  who  was  almost  forward  in  her  attentions,  and  for  the  still  colder  salutation 
of  Camille,  who  had  simply  bowed,  refusing  his  hand  with  this  bitterly  polite 
excuse : 

"  Pardon  me,  Monsieur  Count,  I  cannot ;  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  use  my  hand 
to  take  yours." 

The  first  quadrille  began. 

It  was  really  a  true  rout  in  the  full  force  of  the  word,  a  rush  of  all  Paris,  ladies 
and  women,  sharpers  and  nobles,  people  with  nothing  and  people  with  everything, 
hardened  in  the  old  privileges  or  converted  —  Gertrude  said  perverted  —  to  modern 
equality.  Louchard  was  sounding  Ledru-Rollin  for  political  news  for  his  two  jour- 
nals, and  Gripon  for  financial  news  for  everybody;  and  the  young  notary,  Loiseaux, 
was  talking  over  the  marriage  contract  with  the  baron. 

Watching  the  quadrille,  the  abbe  Ventron,  more  austere  than  ever,  said  to  Ger- 
trude as  he  sipped : 

"What  a  frightful  thing  the  ball-room  isl  What  an  example!  What  chance 
has  innocence  there?  What  a  denial  of  the  family,  what  a  symbol  of  our  sad 
morals,  adultery  and  promiscuity !  See  these  quadrilles,  these  figures,  all  tempta- 
tion and  abomination.  First  two  forward  1  very  well  so  far;  but  first  three  for- 
ward I  then  the  gentleman  changes  his  lady  and  the  lady  her  gentleman!  And 
balance  your  ladies.  And  the  waltz  1  O  Lord,  the  sanctity  of  marriage ! " 

Gertrude  almost  crossed  herself  in  assent  and  contrition. 

When  the  ball  was  at  its  height,  the  abbe",  between  two  rum  sherbets,  embold- 
ened because  he  had  especially  remarked,  in  spite  of  his  moral  reflections  upon 
dancing,  Claire's  coolness  toward  her  cousin  and  her  ardor  toward  Frinlair,  said  to 
himself:  "It  is  time." 


The  Strong-Box.  137 

Then,  taking  advantage  of  the  moment  when  the  baron  led  Canaille  away  to  the 
card-room,  by  agreement  with  Gertrude  he  made  a  sign  to  Claire,  who  approached 
the  baroness;  and  he  softly  spoke  a  word  in  her  ear. 

Claire  made  a  gesture  of  assent  and  joy,  and  quickly  started  toward  her  mother's 
oratory,  a  sort  of  boudoir-sanctuary  adjoining  the  very  ball-room  which  so  shocked 
the  modesty  of  the  abbe".  She  entered ;  and  straightway  Frinlair,  who  did  not 
lose  sight  of  her,  upon  a  similar  honest  and  pious  instigation  from  the  priest,  went 
in  the  same  direction  and  entered  also. 

Here  was  a  fine  tete-a-tete  premeditated  and  arranged  by  the  abbe  acting  as  a  go- 
oetween,  who  watched  at  the  entrance  of  the  holy  place  to  see  that  these  loving 
devotees  should  not  be  disturbed. 

Then  this  pious  matchmaker  entered  with  the  faithful  Gertrude,  whose  director 
he  was;  and  there,  in  presence  of  the  baroness  whom  he  had  led  to  his  ends 
by  all  means,  for  the  salvation  of  her  soul,  the  glory  of  God  and  of  the  Church, — 
in  short,  that  her  goods  might  not  become  the  prey  of  the  devil, — he  affianced  the 
two  lovers  without  the  father's  knowledge  and  against  his  will. 

Camille  meanwhile  was  playing,  and  co  nsequently  wholly  absorbed  in  his  game. 

The  baron,  seeing  him  engaged  in  a  manner  which  he  so  much  approved,  had  re- 
turned to  the  ball-room,  casting  his  eyes  about  in  search  of  his  daughter  whom  he 
did  not  see.  Suspecting  something,  he  then  looked  for  his  wife,  whom  he  did  not 
see  either,  and  finally  for  the  abbe  Ventron,  who  was  likewise  not  to  be  seen. 

He  questioned  the  servants  anxiously. 

He  was,  however,  far  from  suspecting  the  place  and  cause  of  their  retreat, 
when  he  saw  his  wife  and  her  confessor  coming  from  the  direction  of  the  oratory. 

He  went  straight  up  to  them  and  said  dryly : 

"Where  is  my  daughter?" 

"  She  is  praying,"  answered  the  abbe". 

"Praying  .  .  .  at  this  hour?" 

"Why  not?"  said  Gertrude. 

"Alone?" 

"No." 

"And  with  whom?" 

"With  her  affianced." 

"  Her  affianced?"  cried  the  baron. 

"  Yes,"  said  Gertrude,  boldly. 

"  Her  affianced  is  Camille,"  said  the  father. 

"No,  it  is  the  Count  de  Frinlair." 

"Frinlair!" 

"Himself!" 

"Never!  No,  never  will  I  have  any  other  than  Camille  for  my  son-in-law. 
Never  shall  my  daughter  marry  Frinlair.  I  am  her  father  ....  I  am  the  master 
•  .  .  pardon  me,  you  force  me  to  say  it  and  prove  it,  and  I  will ".  .  . 


138  TJie  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

Just  then  the  happy  couple,  Gaston  and  Claire,  came  out  of  the  oratory  together, 
arm  in  arm,  a  little  rumpled,  doubtless  from  having  knelt,  but  with  shining  eyes, 
walking  thus  attached  like  two  beings  henceforth  to  be  but  one,  sure  of  being 
united  against  all,  in  spite  of  father  and  statute,  in  the  name  of  heaven,  by  virtue 
of  the  very  power  and  will  of  God,  by  an  infallible  means,  by  superior  force,  whick 
•would  subject  the  baron,  whom  they  even  seemed  to  defy. 

What  had  passed  between  them  to  give  them  this  assurance?  God  alone  had 
seen  and  knew.  A  betrothal  at  least  had  been  effected,  and  not  that  of  Camille ; 
God  helping,  as  the  baroness  had  said,  God  stronger  than  the  baron,  as  the  abbd 
Ventron  had  said. 

Camille,  who  had  lost  at  cards,  came  back  to  the  ball-room  with  the  right  to  be 
fortunate  in  love,  and  not  even  looking  to  see  whether  Claire  was  present  or  not. 

The  baron  reminded  him  of  his  duty  toward  his  daughter,  saying  in  a  displeased 
and  almost  threatening  voice: 

"  But  at  least  think  of  the  dowry ;  you  will  need  it." 

"Cousin,  for  the  next  waltz,"  said  Camille,  smiling. 

"  Thank  you,  Monsieur,  I  am  engaged,"  and  she  remained  on  Frinlair'a  arm. 

Then  the  baron  lost  his  self-possession,  and  raised  his  hand  as  if  to  take  away 
his  daughter. 

The  baroness  intervened  in  time  to  avoid  scandal : 

"  My  friend  .  .  .  take  care  1 " 

And  the  fright  that  she  had  had  and  the  effort  that  she  had  made  threw  her  in- 
to such  a  crisis  that  she  had  to  be  carried  from  the  ball-room,  followed  by  Claire, 
the  doctor,  the  confessor,  and  her  husband. 

Camille  went  back  to  the  gaming-table  in  search  of  revenge. 


The  Strong-Sox.  139 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE    HOSPITAL. 

Louise  Didier's  sickness  grew  worse.  Unable  longer  to  endure  this  state  of 
things,  Father  Jean  spruced  himself  up,  as  he  said, — that  is,  he  put  on  his  best 
rags  and  passed  his  hands  through  his  hair  and  his  thick  beard. 

He  looked  at  himself  in  a  bit  of  mirror,  and,  not  difficult  to  satisfy,  hoped  that 
others  would  see  him  with  his  own  eyes. 

"Upon  my  word,  I  have  the  air  of  a  m'lord,"  he  said  to  himself;  "I  lack  only  a 
cravat." 

And  without  further  reflection,  full  of  confidence,  he  started  for  the  residence  of 
the  celebrated  Doctor  Dubois. 

The  elegance  of  the  establishment  considerably  disconcerted  him  at  first;  but  he 
quickly  recovered  his  plebeian  assurance,  and  with  perfect  self-possession  inquired 
of  the  janitor  regarding  the  doctor. 

"This  is  where  Doctor  Dubois  lives,  of  the  Charity  Hospital?" 

"You  have  an  errand  with  him?"  asked  the  Cerberus,  eyeing  him  disdainfully. 

"  That's  not  your  business." 

The  offended  janitor,  in  a  voice  more  supercilious  still,  pointed  to  the  servants' 
staircase,  which  Father  Jean  quickly  ascended. 

"This  takes  the  shine  off  the  Rue  Marguerite,"  said  he,  admiring  the  clean, 
light  stairway. 

He  rang,  and  was  introduced  without  opposition  into  the  kitchen,  where  a  world 
of  cooks,  scullions,  and  kitchen-maids  were  moving  about. 

"  Oh  1  oh ! "  he  exclaimed,  now  seriously  disturbed. 

"  What  do  you  want?"  asked  one  of  the  cooks. 

"Is  the  doctor  in?" 

"Yes,  why?" 

"Because  I  wish  to  talk  with  him  on  serious  business." 

"  What  business  ?    If  you  want  to  consult  him,  those  are  not  the  stairs." 

"Where,  then,  if  you  please?  I  do  not  come  for  myself,  to  be  sure.  I  should 
have  no  money  with  which  to  pay  him." 

"No  matter,  come  all  the  same." 

Doctor  Dubois,  as  his  servants  knew,  did  not  turn  away  the  poor,  but  received 
them  always. 


140  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

The  rag-picker  was  ushered  into  the  office  of  the  doctor,  who  had  finished  his 
consultations  and  was  counting  his  fees. 

The  room  was  filled  with  works  of  art,  and  paintings  by  the  great  masters, 
ancient  and  modern,  hid  the  walls  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  doctor  and  the  diver- 
sion of  his  patients. 

But  what  struck  Jean  especially  was  a  table  covered  with  a  pleiad  of  gold  and 
silver  coin,  —  a  firmament,  one  would  have  said.  Jean  was  dazzled,  if  not  dumb. 

"  Pardon  me,  Monsieur  doctor,  for  taking  up  your  time  gratis,  as  I  see  it  is  worth  a 
great  deal  to  you;  perhaps  you  have  earned  enough  today,  since  you  have  closed 
your  shop  to  those  who  pay  and  receive  a  beggar  like  me." 

The  famous  Doctor  Dubois,  who  left  his  name  to  a  private  asylum  in  Paris,  the 
Baron  Dubois,  was  the  great  Liberal  practitioner  of  his  time,  ex-chief  physician  of 
the  ex-emperor  and  healer  of  the  ex-nobility,  —  the  opposite,  in  character  and  prin- 
ciples, of  his  no  less  famous  confrere  in  barony  and  medicine,  the  avaricious  and 
hard-hearted  savant  who  left  his  name  to  a  museum,  Doctor  Dupuytren,  chief  sur- 
geon of  the  king. 

The  people  called  Dubois  "  the  good  doctor."  He  had  indeed  a  democratic  tem- 
perament, and  as  a  doctor  he  recognized  himself  in  men. 

Consequently  the  sight  of  Jean,  so  frank  in  look  and  voice,  neither  borrowed 
nor  begging,  served  only  to  increase  the  doctor's  usual  kindness  to  those  who 
seemed  to  him  worthy  of  it. 

"True,"  said  he  fairly  and  squarely,  "time  is  money.     What  do  you  want?" 

"  Nothing  for  myself,  doctor,  as  you  see ;  I  ana  well  enough,  thank  God !  But  I 
have  a  lady  for  a  neighbor  who".  .  . 

"  Interests  you,  my  buck." 

"Oh!  with  the  most  honorable  intentions,"  exclaimed  Jean  quickly,  "the  poor 
brave  lady;  and  pardon  me,  Monsieur  Dubois,  if  you  give  my  words  a  mischievous 
meaning,  that  will  show  that  you  are  not  as  good  as  you  are  said  to  be." 

"To  be  sure;  I  was  wrong.    Come,  what  is  the  trouble?" 

"  Very  well,  then.  You  see  I  have  confidence,  since  I  am  here.  You  could 
easily  have  deceived  me;  a  doctor  must  be  good  1  He  is  not  like  the  lawyer,  you 
know." 

"Ahl  and  why?" 

"Why?  Because  the  best  lawyer  is  he  who  wins  the  worst  case,  while  the  best 
doctor  is  he  who  cures  the  worst  disease." 

"  Truly,"  said  the  doctor,  charmed  by  this  good  sense,  "  that  is  a  good  definition 
of  the  two  robes,  and  is  well  worth  the  prescription  that  I  shall  give  your  protegee. 
Go  on." 

"  I  was  telling  you  that  my  neighbor,  the  widow  Didier,  wife  of  a  poor  collector 
killed  in  the  service  of  the  banker,  M.  Berville.  .  .  .  You  must  have  read  about 
that  in  the  papers?" 


The  Strong-Box.  141 

"Yes;  what  then?" 

"  Why,  this  poor  lady,  mother  of  a  young  girl  as  honest  and  poor  as  herself,  is 
dying  of  consumption.  Perhaps  you  have  seen  her  yourself  at  the  hospital 
consultation." 

"Wait;  why,  yes,  I  think  so;  about  forty  years  old,  blonde,  from  the  Rue  Saintc- 
Marguerite,  is  that  the  one  ?  " 

"Exactly.  Well,  she  has  been  told  by  you  or  some  member  of  the  board  of  phy- 
sicians, no  matter  who,  that  she  is  not  sick  enough  to  enter  the  hospital,  and  they 
advised  her  to  travel  for  her  health  —  and  her  revenues? — and  thus  to  wait  until 

• 

she  is  too  sick  to  enter  the  hospital.    Your  remedy  is  death." 

"  What  would  you?  The  regulations,  remember,  my  brave  fellow  1  There  is  no 
room  I " 

"  There'll  be  room  enough  in  the  cemetery ;  but,  Great  God !  there's  no  lack  of  it 
at  the  Luxembourg,  at  the  Elyse*e,  at  the  Louvre,  at  the  Tuileries  ...  to  say  no- 
thing of  the  suburbs,  Saint-Cloud,  Meudon,  Versailles.  What  good  hospitals,  eh?" 

The  doctor  smiled. 

"Really,  Monsieur  doctor,  things  cannot  go  on  in  this  way  long,  good  people. 
She  can  hold  out  no  longer!  She  is  dying!  And  if  she  is  not  dead  already,  it  is 
because  she  frightens  death  away.  I  wanted  to  bring  her  to  you,  but,  you  see,  she 
has  no  legs  left  to  support  her  poor  body,  and  not  a  cent  for  a  carriage  I " 

"  Well !  my  friend,  we  will  take  mine  and  go  to  see  your  neighbor.  The  hospital 
is  not  salvation,  but  it  is  better  than  nothing." 

Just  then  the  servant  brought  him  a  letter. 

"Oh!  oh!"  said  he,  as  he  read;  "this  letter  is  from  Mme.  Hoffmann,  the  sister 
of  M.  Berville  of  whom  you  were  speaking.  Pregnant!"  he  cried.  "Well,  that 
will  interest  the  abbe  Ventron  1 " 

"The  messenger  is  waiting  for  a  reply !  "  said  the  servant. 

"I  will  go  ...  but  first  your  poor  neighbor!     Come,  my  old  man." 

Just  as  they  were  about  to  go  out,  the  servant  came  back  with  a  card  bearing 
these  words: 

ISMAEL  GRIPON. 
Broker. 

And  in  pencil :  "  Urgent,  apoplexy." 

"  Show  him  in,"  said  the  doctor. 

The  son  of  the  usurer  Gripon,  become  a  "broker,"  was  introduced;  he  asked  the 
doctor  to  visit  his  father,  who  had  had  a  stroke. 

"Where  does  he  live?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"Faubourg  Saint-Antoine,  No.  30;  an  old  man's  mania  for  sticking  to  his  old 
home." 

"  Well,  I  shall  pass  there,  for  I  am  going  to  the  Rue  Sainte  Marguerite." 


142  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

A  visit  to  so  humble  a  street  aroused  Gripou's  Judaic  disposition. 

"How  much  do  you  charge  for  a  visit,  doctor?"  he  asked. 

"  The  father  of  a  broker  ...  he  is  valuable ;  China  is  right  in  recognizing  only 
the  ascendant  nobility ;  the  author  of  a  child  like  you  is  worth  much.  What  do 
you  think  about  it?  It  will  be  one  hundred  dollars." 

"The  devil!  it  is  dear,"  exclaimed  Gripon,  in  spite  of  himself. 

"You  find  it  so,  M.  Gripon?  How  much  do  you  gain  by  a  stroke  in  the  stock 
market?  A  hundred  dollars.  My  plan  is  to  make  the  rich  pay  for  the  poor.  Those 
of  your  profession  do  enough  to  make  the  poor  pay  for  the  rich.  Compensation." 

"Very  well;  bul  at  least  you  will  have  the  kindness  to  attend  my  mother  at  the 
same  time ;  she  is  sick  also." 

"  Ah  1  you  want  to  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone.  Your  mother  to  boot  ?  Doubt- 
less she  is  less  dear,  because,  having  a  son  of  your  age,  she  will  have  no  more. 
Well,  pardon  me,  Monsieur  Gripon,  you  are  celebrated  on  the  floor  of  the  stock- 
exchange  for  this  variation  from  arithmetic :  '  Two  and  two  make  five  1 '  I  am 
content,  for  my  part,  with  the  ordinary  rule  :  '  Two  and  two  make  four.'  There- 
fore two  visits  at  a  hundred  dollars  each  come  to  ...  two  hundred  dollars.  Take 
it  or  leave  it  I " 

He  bowed  to  the  usurer,  who  returned  the  bow  and  went  to  Dupuytren,  who 
asked  him,  according  to  the  Gripon  rule,  three  hundred  dollars ;  so  that  Ismael, 
running  hither  and  thither,  seeking  paternal  salvation  at  a  discount,  going  from 
door  to  door,  from  the  Court  physicians  to  the  quacks,  lost  time  enough  to  inherit 
from  father  and  mother  without  having  to  pay  five,  or  four,  or  two,  but  zero  to  the 
doctor. 

During  the  economical  peregrinations  of  the  younger  Gripon  in  search  of  in- 
heritance at  a  cheap  rate,  the  doctor  and  Jean  were  rolling  away  in  the  direction 
of  the  Rue  Sainte-Marguerite. 

They  found  Louise  Didier  in  a  swoon  in  her  daughter's  arms  in  consequence  of 
a  hemorrhage. 

The  good  doctor  made  her  inhale  salts,  restored  her  to  consciousness,  and  soon 
found  that  she  was  suffering  from  pulmonary  consumption  of  an  advanced  stage; 
then,  carrying  humanity  to  a  point  not  unfrequently  reached  in  his  noble  profes- 
sion since  the  day 'of  the  good  Ambroise  Pare,  he  took  Mme.  Didier  in  his  own 
carriage  to  the  Charity  Hospital,  after  which  he  started  for  the  residence  of  the 
baroness,  the  Hotel  Hoffmann. 

Unhappily  religion  is  not  always  as  humane  as  science.  And  after  the  first  con- 
sultation and  prescription,  given  in  the  presence  of  the  house-physicians  and 
nurses,  Mme.  Didier  passed  from  the  good  doctor's  hands  into  those  of  a  Sister  of 
Charity. 

The  Charity  Hospital  was  so  named  doubtless  like  the  Sister,  according  to  the 
rule  lucus  a  non  lucendo.  ...  it  was  an  antilogy. 


The  Strong-Box.  143 

In  a  room  containing  more  holy  water  than  gruel  and  more  crucifixes  tham  bou- 
illon, a  dozen  beds  infected  each  other  where  there  was  really  room  only  for  six 
....  and  even  six  would  have  been  too  many. 

The  lung,  an  organ  ever  active  like  the  heart,  needs  to  be  fed  continually.  It 
must  consume  at  least  twelve  hundred  cubic  feet  of  air  a  day  in  order  to  oxygenize 
the  blood  and  furnish  the  living  body  its  natural  heat. 

In  this  cursed  common  room  there  was  neither  a  sufficient  quantity  nor  a  suffi- 
cient quality  of  air,  even  for  healthy  lungs.  And  the  sick  woman,  in  both  these 
respects,  had  lost  by  her  change  of  quarters.  The  hospital  was  worse  than  her 
garret. 

If  the  air  of  Paris,  as  analysis  has  proved,  contains  more  microbes  than  the 
country,  and  the  country  more  than  the  ocean,  how  much  more  than  sea,  fields, 
and  city  does  the  hospital  contain  1  There  Doctor  Oxygen  becomes  Doctor  Poison. 
Hospital  fever  is  the  most  pernicious  of  all.  It  is  well  known  that  amputations  are 
more  fatal  at  the  hospital  than  under  the  tent  in  camp. 

To  this  must  be  added  the  sleepless  nights,  disturbed  by  the  coughing  of  the 
other  patients,  the  death-rattle  of  the  dying,  the  sight  of  the  dead,  and  the  goings 
and  comings  of  the  nurses  as  they  empty  the  beds  of  their  corpses  and  fill  them  with 
new  patients. 

Such  are  the  material  conditions  offered  by  official  hygiene  to  the  poor,  to  Mme 
Didier  as  well  as  others. 

In  all  public  administration,  alas!  the  administered  is  a  mere  package  trans- 
ported to  the  great  cost  of  the  State  and  to  the  great  profit  of  the  administrator 
only. 

The  strictly  medical  conditions  were  no  better. 

Mme.  Didier,  as  she  grew  sicker  and  sicker,  was  less  and  less  carefully  attended 
by  the  nurse  in  charge  of  her  health.  The  Sister's  attention  was  in  the  nature  of 
an  inquisitor's  persecution.  The  religious  zeal  of  the  devotee  increased  with  the 
disease  of  the  patient.  With  each  fit  of  coughing  there  was  a  pious  exhortation 
before  the  julep  1  Not  a  look  without  a  dose  of  orthodox  advice  1 

"You  are  sicker  than  you  think,"  the  Sister  had  charitably  remarked  on  the  very 
first  day;  "your  sickness  is  incurable  without  the  grace  of  heaven;  and  you  would 
do  much  better  to  call  a  confessor  who  would  set  your  soul  at  peace,  and  thus  ren- 
der the  body  more  susceptible  to  the  influence  of  medicine." 

At  this  word,  confessor,  Louise  shuddered,  remembering  the  abbe  Ventron. 

Mme.  Didier,  with  her  usual  straightforwardness,  at  once  told  the  Sister  to  speak 
to  her  no  more  of  priests,  for  she  no  longer  believed  in  confessors  or,  consequently, 
confession. 

"  Unhappy  woman,"  cried  the  pious  nurse,  more  in  anger  than  in  pity,  "to  whom, 
then,  can  you  look,  I  do  not  say  for  cure,  but  for  consolation?" 

"  To  my  conscience  1 "  and  she  turned  her  head  toward  the  wall. 


144  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

From  that  time  she  was  disliked,  and,  as  she  remained  firm  to  the  end,  the  usual 
severity  changed  into  cruelty. 

The  inconveniences  of  consumption  became  unpardonable  crimes  in  the  poor 
victim.  She  was  wrong  in  everything.  She  spat  too  much,  she  spat  in  the  wrong 
place,  she  stained  the  bed-clothes,  the  carpet,  the  floor. 

One  would  have  said  that  the  nurse  was  more  concerned  with  the  tiles  than  with 
her  lungs,  and  that  she  was  more  the  sister  of  the  bed-curtains  than  of  the  patient. 

"It  is  disgusting,  you  soil  everything,"  she  cried  every  time  the  sick  woman  spat 
blood.  "  You  awaken  everybody  with  your  hollow  cough." 

The  worst  fanaticism  is  the  son  of  the  worst  egoism, — personal  salvation  for 
eternity;  remember  that.  Charity  became  ferocity. 

The  care,  prescriptions,  and  advice  of  Doctor  Dubois,  therefore,  were  null  and 
ineffective,  dead  letters,  forgotten  and  unexecuted. 

Tortured  by  omission  and  commission,  she  was  blamed  for  everything  at  the 
same  time  that  she  was  deprived  of  everything. 

There  was  no  sweetening  in  the  drinks;  sugar,  so  necessary  for  the  supply  of 
heat  in  lung  diseases,  was  given  out  in  doses,  begged,  and  stolen.  For  those  who 
would  not  eat  the  consecrated  wafer  there  was  no  milk. 

The  nurse  became  a  killer  by  inches  with  her  stinging  words,  her  pin-pricks ;  in 
short,  it  was  a  long  and  atrocious  assassination  of  several  months'  duration,  the 
victim  in  such  a  case  as  this  being  fully  conscious,  seeing  that  she  was  being  killed 
and  feeling  it. 

But  the  moral  conditions  of  the  patient  were  even  worse. 

This  poor,  sensitive  woman  suffered  especially  in  her  dignity,  her  modest y,  yes, 
even  more  than  in  all  her  wants. 

Man  is  at  once  individual  and  collective.  Though  he  needs  common  life,  lit  no 
less  needs  private  life;  and  it  is  especially  in  suffering  that  he  wants  to  be  alo:.^. 
The  most  gregarious  beast,  a  sheep  or  a  hen,  once  taken  sick,  separates  from  Hit- 
others  and  goes  into  a  corner  to  suffer  and  to  die. 

It  is  this  need  of  retirement,  of  quiet,  more  necessary  still  to  man,  in  whom  the 
family  instinct  is  stronger  than  in  the  beast,  —  it  is  this  instinctive  repugnance  of 
the  people  to  an  unnatural  promiscuity  which  makes  them  regard  it  as  an  insult  to 
be  told :  "  You  will  die  in  the  hospital  1 " 

All  the  science  and  zeal  of  the  best  physicians  have  not  been  able  to  overcome 
this  love  of  home  and  this  hatred  of  confusion;  the  hospital,  the  convent,  the  bar- 
racks, place  the  same  check  upon  individual  sentiment. 

Louise  Didier  had  no  greater  torture  to  endure  than  this  moral  indignity  of  the 
cenobitism  of  the  hospital. 

Degraded  on  entering,  deprived  of  name  and.  personality  ...  a  number,  a  sub- 
ject, a  case. 

Obliged  every  morning  to  submit  to  a  public  visit,  in  presence  of  the  other 


The  Strong-l3ox.  145 

patients,  from  a  band  of  students,  some  of  them  studious,  the  rest  curious,  all  tak- 
ing turns  in  feeling  of  her,  handling  her,  sounding  her,  and  turning  her  over  in 
every  direction. 

frothing  of  her  own  left^  not  even  her  skin;  treated  without  respect  or  decency; 
made  simply  a  subject  of  experiment.  She  really  belonged  to  herself  no  longer. 
She  was  the  property  of  science,  of  society,  which  lent  her  a  bed  at  usury,  a  bed  to 
die  in,  on  condition  that  she  would  die  for  society,  that  her  agony  should  be  at  its 
service,  and  then  her  corpse,  provided  she  could  not  redeem  it  from  this  iniquitous, 
absurd  society,  based  on  the  family  which  it  violated,  however,  by  this  hospital 
life. 

This  mass  of  misery  overwhelmed  her  courage  like  a  rock  of  Sisyphus  continually 
falling  back  on  her  poor  crushed  heart.  Even  the  visits  of  her  daughter,  whom 
Jean  brought  to  her,  were  regulated  like  everything  else,  so  that  she  no  longer  de- 
sired them.  Instead  of  soothing  her,  they  embittered  her  by  the  separation. 

Moreover,  they  took  Marie  from  her  work.  The  little  dainties  which  she  brought 
cost  her  dear.  In  short,  the  mother's  heart  was  torn  at  the  end  of  every  interview; 
the  sorrow  which  the  progress  of  the  disease  caused  her  daughter  every  week,  and 
which  she  saw  in  Marie's  eyes  however  the  child  might  try  to  conceal  it,  doubled 
her  own  pain.  She  had  reached  the  point  where  she  desired  nothing  but  death, 
which  finally  heard  her  prayer. 

On  the  second  day  after  one  of  these  visits,  foreseeing  her  end,  she  wished  how- 
ever, though  in  vain,  to  see  her  daughter  and  Jean,  in  order  to  commend  her  to  his 
care.  It  was  not  visitors'  day,  but  it  was  death's  day,  and  death  was  her  only 
visitor. 

In  the  presence  of  death  and  his  relentless  accomplice,  the  Sister,  who  tormented 
the  victim  to  the  end,  the  worthy  mother,  with  her  last  breath,  only  murmured 
three  names, — Jacques,  Marie,  and  Jean. 

"  Good  riddance ! "  said  the  Sister.  "  At  last !  She  richly  deserved  to  go  where 
she  has  gone!  May  God  have  pity  on  her  soul  I  The  impious  creature!  She  will 
stain  nothing  more." 

And  sprinkling  holy  water  on  a  cloth  with  a  branch  of  box,  she  threw  it  over 
the  face. 

Number  12  was  carried  to  the  dissecting  room,  where  there  was  an  abundance  of 
subjects;  and,  the  season  being  cold,  the  body  remained  there  until  the  next  visi- 
tors' day. 

Then  Father  Jean  came  again  with  Marie,  entered  the  sick-room,  and  went  to 
the  bed. 

"  Ah ! "  he  cried,  terrified,  and,  turning  around  quickly,  he  stopped  Marie  from 
advancing. 

A  man  occupied  Madame  Didier's  place. 

"Where  is  Louise  Didier?"  he  asked. 


146  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"  Who  ?  "  said  the  devotee. 

"  The  lady  that  occupied  this  bed." 

"Number  12?" 

"Madame  Didier,  I  tell  youl" 

"  Too  late,  good  people." 

"Where  is  she?" 

"  In  the  dissecting  room,  Number  12,  if  she  is  still  there." 

"  Mam'zelle  Marie,  stay  here  1 "  cried  Jean. 

And  he  went  out  like  a  thunderbolt,  in  the  direction  of  the  dissecting  room. 

He  entered  just  in  time. 

Number  12,  Madame  Didier,  was  stretched  at  full  length  upon  a  stoue  table, 
naked  and  stiff,  without  a  veil  save  what  was  left  of  her  long  light  hair,  scattered 
over  her  breasts,  her  two  anatomical  arms  extended  beside  her  skeleton. 

In  a  hideous  tub  fragments  of  human  remains  were  bleaching  in  cold  water, 
like  calves'  feet  and  heads  in  a  slaughter-house. 

The  Church  consecrates  only  the  remains  of  the  rich.  To  it  as  to  the  State  the 
remains  of  the  poor  are  detritus. 

Around  the  funeral  table  a  dozen  merry  students,  with  aprons  fastened  to  their 
necks  and  scalpels  in  their  hands,  laughing,  smoking,  playing  at  throwing  scraps 
of  flesh  in  each  other's  faces,  were  getting  ready  to  dissect  this  body,  perfect  con- 
sidering its  thinness,  in  order  to  learn  how  to  cure  the  rich  and  become,  if  not 
Dubois  in  the  service  of  the  Didiers,  at  least  Dupuytrens  in  the  service  of  the 
Hoffmanns. 


The  Strong-Sox.  147 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  FAMILY. 

Time  rolled  the  twelve  months  of  the  year  1847  over  our  characters,  each  of 
whom,  as  Virgil  says,  followed  his  attraction.  Trahit  sua  quemque.  .  .  . 

While  Louise  Didier  departed,  happy  to  rejoin  Jacques  in  the  ground  and  content 
to  leave  Marie  in  Jean's  charge,  Camille  ran  to  his  ruin  and  pushed  on  the 
Revolution. 

Frinlair  and  Claire,  faithful  to  their  betrothal  vows,  awaited  their  marriage  by 
the  aid  of  God  and  the  abbe  Ventron. 

The  baron  held  stoutly  to  Camille,  and  the  baroness  to  Frinlair,  when  she  re- 
ceived her  annunciation. 

Then  she  felt  the  first  thrill  in  her  maternal  organism,  the  first  pulsation  of  a 
heart  now  charged  with  two  lives. 

By  accident  or  design,  by  imprudence  or  submission  to  the  sovereign  of  feminine 
passions,  by  Monsieur's  fault  or  Madame's,  the  risk  foreseen  by  Doctor  Dubois  had 
been  braved  and  the  danger  incurred. 

The  baroness  was  pregnant. 

An  immense  joy  took  possession  of  her  at  first  ....  to  fulfil  her  destiny,  to  be 
at  last  a  real  woman,  a  mother!  What  happiness!  She  saw  herself  sacrificing 
everything  to  her  child,  —  sleep,  leisure,  pleasures,  even  her  religious  duties;  de- 
voted to  him  night  and  day,  rocking  him,  nursing  him,  bringing  him  up,  sustain- 
ing him  body  and  soul  on  her  own  substance,  breathing  only  for  him,  living  again 
wholly  iu  him. 

Maternal  love,  that  supreme  law  of  devotion  of  the  present  to  the  future  which 
governs  the  feminine  nature,  changing  the  sheep  into  a  lioness  and  the  lioness  into 
a  sheep,  and  softening  and  strengthening  everything  that  it  controls  on  earth, 
dominated  Gertrude.  Her  arm  would  serve  as  a  bed  of  rest  for  her  Jesus,  her 
bosom  be  his  source  of  life.  Already  she  bore  him  upon  her  neck  like  a  Madonna, 
on  a  level  with  her,  equal  to  her.  She  divided  her  heart  between  him  and  God.  .  . 
and  he  was  her  husband's  rival  as  well  as  her  God's. 

Suddenly  the  memory  of  death  came  back  to  her,  and  her  joy  vanished  like  a 
flash. 

She  recollected  the  fatal  danger  which  science  had  predicted  for  her,  and  the 


148  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

thought  took  her  heart  back  to  Claire,  to  her  adopted  daughter,  and  started  her 
again  in  a  struggle  against  her  husband,  fully  determined  as  she  was  to  endow  her 
only  for  the  pious  Friulair. 

It  was  an  intestine,  constant  warfare,  secret  and  open  by  turns,  and  to  the 
death. 

Poor  baron,  with  a  wife  both  irritable  and  pregnant  I  Misfortunes  never  come 
singly,  but,  like  policemen,  in  pairs. 

The  home,  when  not  harmonious,  is  worse  than  the  hospital;  and  the  widow 
Didier  dying  at  the  Charity  had  little  reason  to  envy  Gertrude  sick  in  her  family. 

The  doctor,  summoned  to  the  house,  entered  Gertrude's  room. 

First  he  assured  himself  of  her  pregnancy  as  carefully  as  necessary,  scolded  the 
couple  for  their  weakness  with  his  familiar  but  serious  good  nature,  and  then  pre- 
scribed a  severe  regime  to  prevent  the  birth  from  being  followed  by  fatal  results. 

Her  food,  whether  solid  or  liquid,  was  to  be  carefully  selected  and  weighed, 
tested  both  as  to  quantity  and  quality;  and  he  gravely  warned  the  couple  against 
any  violation  of  his  orders. 

The  slightest  imprudence  might  be  fatal  to  his  patient.  Her  diet  must  consist 
largely  of  milk,  given  in  small  and  frequent  doses.  But  nothing  too  substantial, 
still  less  anything  stimulating,  neither  wine  nor  liquors,  neither  tea  nor  coffee, 
strict  abstinence  from  everything  succulent. 

Thus  the  prescription  for  the  rich  Gertrude  was  simpler  and  less  expensive  than 
that  for  the  poor  Louise,  who  was  bidden  to  drink  wines  and  eat  generous  —  and 
onerous  —  viands. 

But  if  the  poor  woman  had  not  been  able  to  follow  the  too  costly  directions, 
scarcely  more  able  was  the  rich  one  to  follow  the  meaner  prescription. 

Gertrude,  under  the  influence  of  this  reduced  diet,  felt  that  she  was  becoming 
depressed.  By  nature  anaemic,  but  accustomed  to  an  excellent  table,  her  culinary 
taste  and  weak  stomach  could  ill  endure  privations  and  agreed  in  protesting  against 
this  fasting  regime,  in  violating  the  sacred  commands  of  science. 

She  cried  of  starvation,  and  wept  sometimes  like  a  child,  going  from  disgust  to 
voracity,  and  then  saying: 

"I  am  hungry!" 

She  bribed  her  servants  and  deceived  her  husband ;  or  rather  the  former  through 
negligence  and  the  latter  through  indulgence  left  at  her  door  some  comforting  wine 
and  some  savory  viand  with  which  she  satisfied  herself  in  secret,  like  a  glutton,  and 
the  more  dangerously  because  she  devoured  greedily,  at  varying  intervals,  without 
mastication  and  without  regularity,  —  in  all  these  ways  inducing  indigestion. 

In  spite  of  all  the  injunctions  of  her  doctor  and  her  husband,  something  was  al- 
ways lying  about  under  her  eyes,  under  her  hand,  by  chance  doubtless,  some  bit 
more  or  less  indigestible,  forgotten  or  carelessly  put  away,  meat  and  wine  which 
she  devoured  to  her  destruction. 


The  Strong-Box.  149 

Sometimes  even  her  husband  had  not  the  strength  to  effectively  oppose  her,  to 
resist  her  desires,  seeming  to  feel  a  guilty  sympathy,  a  conniving  goodness,  a  homi- 
cidal tenderness,  —  a  murderer  out  of  pity  and  killing  through  love. 

So  the  albuminuria,  far  from  improving  under  this  loosely-followed  treatment, 
grew  worse  and  worse,  and  the  doctor,  disappointed  and  puzzled,  unable  to  calcu- 
late on  the  servants'  negligence  and  the  husband's  kindness,  supposing  that  he  was 
obeyed  and  not  knowing  that  he  was  betrayed,  came  at  last  to  believe  that  he  did 
not  understand  this  mystifying  disease  at  all,  and  despaired  of  saving  his  patient. 

During  the  whole  course  of  the  sickness  all  his  knowledge  struggled  thus  unsuc- 
cessfully and  met  nothing  but  reverses  until  the  final  defeat. 

Chance  precipitated  it. 

Chance  is  everything. 

One  day,  when  the  doctor  had  given  stricter  orders  than  ever  concerning  her 
diet  and  milk,  the  baron  had  for  his  breakfast  an  excellent  languet  de  Vierzon. 
Every  winter  since  she  had  lived  in  Paris  Gertrude  had  had  this  dish  from  her 
native  Berri. 

Summoned  on  a  matter  of  business,  the  baron  left  the  table  for  a  moment,  no 
doubt  forgetting  the  tempting  languet.  But  scarcely  was  he  out  of  the  room  before 
the  poor,  famished  patient,  who,  as  she  drank  her  milk,  bad  steadily  eaten  the  lan- 
guet with  her  eyes  filled  with  a  look  of  Tantalus,  yielding  to  her  fit  of  hunger  and 
her  provincial  taste,  had  pounced  frantically  and  hungrily  upon  this  pork  which 
was  so  bad  for  her,  and  stuffed  herself  full,  like  the  monk  who  invented  the  dish 
and  died  from  it. 

She  washed  it  down  with  Sancerre  wine,  and,  when  the  baron  returned,  he  found 
nothing  but  a  bare  bone  and  an  empty  bottle. 

The  baron  scolded,  locking  the  stable-door,  as  the  proverb  says,  after  the  horse 
had  been  stolen. 

A  few  hours  after  this  imprudence,  caused  by  her  husband's  chance  absence, 
Gertrude  was  taken  with  a  terrible  crisis,  the  violent  shock  of  which  failed  unfor- 
tunately to  induce  the  miscarriage  which  alone  could  have  saved  her. 

She  was  seized  with  cramps  and  contractions.  The  convulsions  became  so  fre- 
quent and  intense  that  the  servants  had  to  be  called  continually  to  hold  the  bent 
body  and  the  limbs  twisted  like  vine-stocks  by  a  frightful  spasm. 

Soon  the  nervous  wave,  which  had  begun  with  the  body  and  arms,  invaded  the 
face.  Then  there  was  a  horrible  spectacle,  distressing,  poignant,  even  to  the  in- 
different. 

Her  teeth  chattered,  shutting  and  opening  like  the  mechanical  jaws  in  a  dentist's 
show-case.  Her  mouth  frothed  and  foamed;  her  eyes  rolled  and  twisted  and 
turned  in  their  sockets  till  nothing  but  the  whites  could  be  seen;  her  ears  rang; 
her  voice,  or  rather  her  strident  rattle,  was  a  mingled  laugh  and  wail;  a  frantic 
vibration  alternated  with  a  corpse-like  tension;  in  short,  there  were  all  the  symp- 
toms of  acute  eclampsy  at  its  fatal  paroxysm. 


150  The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 

The  doctor,  after  having  tried  in  vain  all  anodynes  and  all  revulsives,  the  rub- 
bing of  legs  and  hands  in  warm  water,  cried: 

"  Quick,  a  cork  1 " 

And  he  placed  between  her  teeth  the  cork  from  the  fatal  bottle  of  Sancerre,  add- 
ing to  the  baron : 

"  Now  take  good  care  that  this  cork  stays  there,  for  she  might  cut  her  tongue  off 
with  her  teeth,  and  the  hemorrhage  would  be  her  death." 

Then,  anxious,  he  went  out  to  prepare  with  his  own  hands  a  final  anaesthetic. 

During  the  doctor's  presence  the  baroii  had  followed  the  progress  of  the  crisis 
with  a  silent  anxiety. 

Throughout  her  sickness,  between  the  crises,  the  inflexible  Gertrude  always  re- 
turned to  Claire's  marriage,  like  Cato  to  the  destruction  of  Carthage. 

In  a  moment  of  calmness,  before  the  insertion  of  the  cork,  she  had  said  solemnly 
to  her  husband : 

"  I  feel  very  ill  ...  I  do  not  know  whether  I  shall  die.  .  .  but  if  you  have  loved 
me,  if  you  love  me  still,  if  you  wish  me  to  die  happy,  tranquil,  in  the  hope  of  going 
to  await  you  in  heaven,  swear  that  you  will  not  sacrifice  the  heart  to  the  strong-box, 
our  daughter  to  our  treasury,  but  will  marry  Claire,  not  to  the  scoffer,  but  to  the 
Christian  1  It  is  God's  wish." 

"Ah I  dear  friend,  what  are  you  thinking  of?  God  does  not  wish  to  separate  us 
from  our  daughter,  expatriate  her,  banish  her  far  away  from  us,  from  France,  in  a 
foreign  land,  in  the  arms  of  an  ambassador-husband!  Think  only  of  your  sick- 
ness, of  your  recovery,  of  the  happiness  of  all  of  us." 

And  this  reply  of  her  husband  had  unchained  the  crisis,  as  we  have  seen,  with 
all  its  horrors  and  all  its  dangers. 

Then,  to  do  his  best  to  quiet  her,  he  placed  the  patient's  hand  upon  his  heart ; 
and  Gertrude,  electrified  by  the  contact,  by  the  beating  of  this  beloved  heart,  fell 
into  a  delirious  ecstasy  full  of  disordered  visions  and  broken  words, — strong-box 
.  .  .  heart  .  .  .  interest  .  .  .  love  .  .  .  God  .  .  .  my  daughter  .  .  .  heaven  .  .  . 
Bourges  I 

Theu  she  saw  herself  in  her  dear  and  good  old  town  of  Bourges,  in  the  cathedral 
church,  in  front  of  the  high  altar,  amid  the  fumes  of  the  incense  and  the  tones  of 
the  organ,  witnessing  the  marriage  of  Claire  and  Frinlair,  celebrated  by  the  abbe" 
Ventron  made  an  archbishop-cardinal,  primate  of  the  Aquitanias  and  leading  them 
all  into  paradise. 

"  All  I  all  into  heaven  1 "  she  cried. 

"Ah  I  poor  mad  darling  1  dear  wife  I  come  back  to  yourself,"  cried  the  baron,  as 
if  crazed  with  grief  himself,  suddenly  placing  his  face  against  hers  and  covering 
her  with  sobs  and  kisses. 

Then  a  heart-rending  cry  was  heard. 

In  these  passionate  kisses,  by  some  accident  doubtless,  the  cork  had  jumped  from 


The  Strong-Box.  151 

Gertrude's  lips,  and  the  invalid's  convulsive  teeth,  striking  her  tongue,  had  severed 
it  with  a  cut  as  clean  as  a  pair  of  scissors  would  have  made.  An  irrepressible 
flow  of  blood  started  from  the  mouth  of  the  unfortunate  woman.  The  baron,  in 
despair,  rang  and  shouted  for  help  and  for  the  doctor;  but  before  the  doctor  had 
returned,  the  baroness,  holding  the  baron's  hand  so  tightly  that  it  seemed  as  if  she 
would  crush  it,  had  breathed  her  last. 

The  dead  woman's  fingers  had  to  be  cut  off  to  release  her  husband's  hand. 

When  death  strikes,  it  is  rarely  with  a  single  blow.  Misfortune  is  like  the  police- 
man; it  comes  in  squads.  It  caroms  like  Gre"vy  or  Pius  IX. 

Thus  Garousse's  hook  had  been  twice  fatal  to  the  two  families, — the  Bervilles 
and  the  Didiers. 

Thus  the  descendant  «f  the  Frank,  continuing  the  bloody  history  of  his  ancestor 
in  our  country,  had  struck  twice  the  Bourgeoisie  and  the  Plebeians.  He  had  killed 
Berville  and  Jacques.  He  killed  Gertrude  and  Louise. 

Jean  claimed  Louise's  body  and  saved  it  from  public  utility  by  burying  it  in  the 
common  grave  where  lay  the  body  of  her  husband ;  and  Madame  the  baroness 
went  to  await  hers  in  the  family  vault. 

t    "Now  it  is  for  me  to  marry  Claire  according  to  God,"  said  the  abbe  Ventron  to 
himself,  as  he  blessed  Gertrude. 

"  Now  it  is  for  me  alone  to  be  both  father  and_mother,"  said  Jean  to  himself,  as 
he  gazed  upon  Marie. 


152  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE   BOUDOIR. 

After  the  secret  betrothal  effected  in  the  oratory  by  the  grace  of  God,  the  baroii 
had  hermetically  sealed  his  door  against  Frinlair,  in  spite  of  the  tears,  prayers, 
and  adjurations  of  the  triple  alliance,  —  Claire,  Gertrude,  and  Ventron. 

"But,"  says  Figaro,  "if  you  want  to  sharpen  Rosina's  wits,  shut  her  up." 

So  Claire,  in  spite  of  all  the  precautions  and  watchfulness  of  Barlholo,  found  a 
way  of  meeting  her  affianced  here  or  there,  even  though  at  a  distance. 

For  five  years  thus  they  had  met,  not  united,  exchanging  only  glances  and  vain 
sighs,  or  at  most  a  word  with  the  holy  water  at  the  mass  of  the  priest  of  Saint- 
Roch,  who,  still  their  ally,  had  more  than  once  preached  before  them,  if  not  for 
them,  against  sterile  pleasures,  Vce  soli,  and  for  the  crescite,  increase  and  multiply, 
of  the  Holy  Bible. 

Never  had  Frinlair  been  more  a  Christian,  more  assiduous  in  his  religious  duties 
than  during  this  lustre  following  his  betrothal. 

He  frequented  the  church  almost  as  much  as  the  club,  neglecting  races  for  ves- 
pers and  jockeys  for  preachers. 

But  God  overwhelms  with  blessings  those  who  vow  to  be  his  own.  After  au- 
dacity, patience  is  the  surest  weapon  of  love  .  .  .  and  perseverance  is  diabolical. 

Finally  an  opportunity  to  renew  and  assure  his  rights  as  a  lover  was  afforded  him 
through  another  medium,  less  celestial  than  that  of  the  priest,  just  as  he  was  be- 
ginning to  lose  hope,  as  in  the  sonnet  of  Philis,  and  to  fear  the  prescription. 

Frinlair's  sister,  Mile.  Berthe,  Claire's  school-friend  at  the  convent  des  Oiseaux, 
was  about  to  marry. 

She  had  to  go  to  the  fashionable  dressmaking  establishment  of  the  great  Alexis 
to  see  her  wedding  dress.  So  she  had  begged  her  friend  Claire,  whose  good  taste 
she  recognized,  to  be  kind  enough  to  accompany  her  and  give  her  the  benefit  of 
her  advice. 

Before  their  arrival  at  Alexis's,  a  young  working-girl  in  mourning,  carrying  her 
box  in  her  hand,  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  sales-parlor  of  the  establishment. 

"  Come  in,"  cried  a  valet,  fat  as  a  prelate. 

An  habituJ  of  the  Thdatre-Franqais,  thanks  to  the  tickets  given  him  by  an  actress 
who  patronized  his  employer,  this  original  valet  had  taken  the  classic  name  of 


The  Strong-Box,  153 

Frontin,  and  put  on  many  airs  with  the  working-girls,  whom  he  called  Toinette  or 
Marton.  He  was  dressed  in  keeping  with  his  name,  laced,  powdered,  breeched, 
one  of  the  furnishings  of  this  parlor  filled  with  mannikins,  patterns,  and  displays 
of  every  sort. 

"What  do  you  want?"  said  he,  grandly,  to  the  working-girl;  "work?  This  is 
not  the  office ;  this  is  the  sales-parlor.  You  do  not  corne  to  buy,  I  suppose." 

"Pardon  me,  Monsieur,"  said  she,  thoroughly  confused  by  this  welcome,  "I  made 
a  mistake,"  and  she  started  to  withdraw. 

Ogling  her  and  succumbing  to  the  young  girl's  magic  charm,  he  said  in  a  gentler 
tone : 

"  What  is  your  name,  my  dear?" 

"  Marie  Didier." 

"What  department?" 

"Paris." 

"  What  part,  I  ask  you?"  said  he,  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulder. 

"  Faubourg  Saint- Antoine." 

"That  isn't  what  I  mean,  you  innocent.  Are  you  a  milliner  or  a  dressmaker? 
Do  you  make  waists  or  skirts?  Do  you  sell  or  pose?" 

"I  am  a  seamstress,  and  I  bring  some  samples,"  said  she,  braving  everything 
through  necessity. 

"Well,  let  us  look." 

"There,  Monsieur,  sleeves,  waists,  and  skirts;  yon  can  choose." 

And  she  timidly  showed  him  three  little  master-pieces  of  grace,  perfect,  like  her- 
self. 

"  Not  bad,  these  .  .  .  but  a  great  deal  of  work  for  a  little  money  ...  is  it  not 
so?  See  here,  you  are  pretty,  you  please  me;  and,  if  you  will  take  my  advice,"  he 
added,  giving  her  a  pat  on  the  cheek  that  made  her  start,  "you  will  drop  the  needleji 
for  the  pose." 

"What's  that?"  asked  Marie,  surprised; 

"  Well,  for  the  mannikin." 

"  The  mannikin  1 "  she  exclaimed,  still  more.puzzledi 

"Why,  yes,  simpleton;  cloak-wearer,  shawl-wearer  .  .  .  nice  work,  much  better, 
than  sewing.  A  dollar  a  day  and  your  board,  to  say  nothing  of  gratuities  and  the 
pieces.  The  more  I  look  at  you,  the  better  fitted  you  seem  to  me  for  that  employ- 
ment. You  have  a  good  figure,  and,  if  you  will  be  amiable,  you  shall  be  presented." 

"  Much  obliged,"  replied  Marie,  blushing,  to  this  conceited  booby ;  "  I  prefer  to 
work  at  home." 

Then  steps  were  heard  in  the  ves  tibule,  and,  as  Marie,  wonder-struck,  was  pick- 
ing up  her  box  to  go,  the  varlet  said  to  her : 

"  Stay  a  little  while;  if  you  wish  to  see  some  fine  dresses  for  the  sake  of  your  own 
trade,  you  will  look  at  the  trousseau  of  Mile.  Berthe  de  Frinlair." 


154  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

Influenoed  by  the  love  of  art,  Marie  remained. 

At  that  moment  Alexis  the  great,  in  a  dressing-gown,  entered  with  Berthe  and 
Claire,  escorted  by  Friulair  and  followed  by  a  dressmaker,  Mile.  Trompette,  carry- 
ing a  new  dress. 

A  pianist  brought  up  the  rear. 

Alexis  ordered  the  valet  to  light  the  gas,  saying  to  the  ladies: 

"One  cannot  judge  a  ball-dress  except  by  gas-light  and  trial.  How  else  can  one 
tell  whether  the  form  and  shade  suit  the  figure  and  complexion?  So  be  kind 
enough,  I  pray  you,"  he  added,  pompously,  "  to  step  into  the  boudoir  with  Mile. 
Trompette." 

The  three  women  passed  into  the  dressing-room,  and  Alexis  handed  the  "Chari- 
vari" to  Frinlair,  keeping  a  fashion  journal  for  himself. 

Then,  perceiving  Marie,  he  said  to  the  valet : 

"Who  is  this  girl?" 

"  A  posing  apprentice,"  answered  Frontin. 

"Pardon  me,  Monsieur,  a  work".  .  . 

"Hush  ...  or  the  door!"  said  Frontin  in  a  low  voice  to  Marie,  who  neverthe 
less  was  about  to  reply,  when  Alexis,  like  a  true  employer,  hastened  to  say : 

"We  already  have  many  for  that  line  of  work  .  .  .  but  we  will  see;"  and  mak- 
ing a  sign  to  the  pianist,  he  cried:  "Quadrille  and  waltz,"  whereupon  the  pianist 
began  a  prelude,  cutting  short  the  words  of  Marie,  who  was  gathering  up  her  sam- 
ples to  go. 

A  large  woman  then  entered,  and,  bowing  awkwardly  to  Alexis,  asked,  with  a 
Teutonic  ascent,  to  see  a  cloak  of  the  latest  style  and  largest  size  for  Berlin,  she 
said,  German  women  being  taller  than  Frenchwomen. 

"  You  mean  longer,"  answered  Alexis,  laughing,  and  he  cried :  "  A  cloak  of  the 
largest  size." 

A  posing-woman,  Louisa,  entered  with  a  cloak  on  her  arm. 

"Too  small,"  said  Alexis  to  Louisa.  Then,  seeing  Marie  going  out,  he  said: 
"Ahl  you  will  do.  You  have  a  figure.  Come  here  I"  And  as  Marie  hesitated, 
he  added :  "  Come,  I  say,  and  stand  up  straight  1 " 

Taking  her  by  the  arm  almost  by  force,  he  put  the  cloak  upon  her  back.  Then, 
addressing  his  customer,  he  said : 

"See,  a  work  of  art! " 

"It  looks  very  well  in  the  rear.  Now  turn  around,  Mademoiselle,"  said  the  cus- 
tomer. "Well,  Monsieur,  that  suits  me.  How  much?" 

"Two  hundred  dollars." 

"A  little  dear,  considering  the  material." 

"  The  material  1  Ah,  ah  1  the  material  is  a  consideration  for  the  country,  for 
Germany  1  Paris,  Madame,  stands  for  form.  The  material  is  nothing,  form  is 
everything  .  .  .  and  look,  it  is  the  latest  novelty." 


The  Strong-Box.  155 

"I  see  .  .  .  but  have  you  nothing  better  for  the  money?" 

"No,  Madame,"  exclaimed  Alexis, superb  iii  his  contempt  and  indignation,  "no- 
thing better  than  that  for  you.  It  is  enough  that  you  have  seen  one,  you  shall  not 
copy  two!  Louisa,  take  away  that  cloak.  And  you,  Frontin,  take  Madame's  de- 
scription ;  we  have  nothing  beautiful  enough  for  her." 

"Pardon  me,"  replied  the  customer,  "everything  in  your  establishment  is  not 
second-rate,  Monsieur  Alexis ;  your  insolence  at  least  is  of  the  first  quality." 

And  she  went  out,  bursting  with  laughter,  taking  with  her  in  her  German 
memory  as  revenge  a  pattern  for  use  in  Berlin  free  of  cost. 

Friulair  had  found  the  scene  quite  as  amusing  as  the  "Charivari";  and  Marie, 
more  and  more  interested,  was  nevertheless  about  to  go  at  last,  when  Trompette 
came  back  to  say : 

"Mademoiselle  de  Frinlair  is  ready." 

Then  Marie,  fascinated  by  curiosity,  stayed  longer. 

"Wait,"  said  Alexis  to  Trompette,  "till  I  take  my  place  in  order  to  judge  well 
of  the  effect." 

And  he  seated  himself  majestically  on  his  armchair  as  if  it  were  a  throne,  the 
throne  of  fashion.  Then,  taking  up  his  eye-glasses,  he  said: 

"  Tell  her  to  come  in." 

And  as  Berthe  entered  in  her  costume,  he  continued : 

"I  beg  pardon,  Mademoiselle,  salute  me,  I  beg  of  you,  as  you  pass,  that  I  may 
see  if  the  movement  disarranges  the  waist.  .  .  .  Good  I  Correct,  not  a  wrinkle, 
nothing  moves,  a  cuirass.  And  now  you  are  going  to  dance." 

"Dance?"  exclaimed  Berthe,  in  amazement. 

"And  waltz." 

"Why?" 

"  That  I  may  see  now  if  the  movement  will  disarrange  the  skirt." 

"Isn't  that  rather  too  much?  I  can  hardly  walkl  But  I  must  submit  or  resign. 
Your  will  be  done,  great  artist!  We  are  your  subjects,  and  you  are  a  real  tyrant, 
the  most  absolute  of  all,  the  tyrant  of  fashion." 

"  And  the  slave  of  beauty." 

"  All  quarters,  all  regimes,  royalty  and  the  republic,  nobility  and  finance,  Saint- 
Honore  and  Saint-Germain,  all  Paris  obeys  you  more  than  the  pope." 

"To  say  nothing  of  all  the  crowned  heads  of  Europe,  whose  hair  I  dress  and 
whose  costumes  I  make,  but  at  what  price  1  What  art ! " 

"  And  what  expense ! " 

"  To  be  sure !  Master-pieces  cost  everybody  dear,  you  as  well  as  me.  Now,  ca- 
valier, corne  in." 

Then  entered  a  young  man  dressed  in  a  black  coat,  with  a  moustache  of  the 
same  color,  white  cravat  and  gloves,  and  a  flower  in  his  buttonhole,  —  a  masculine 
poser,  waxed,  polished,  glazed,  perfect. 


156  The  Hay-Picker  of  Paris. 

"  My  son,  Mademoiselle." 

The  son  .bowed. 

"Come,  give  your  hand  to  Mademoiselle;  take  your  place  and  let  the  music  be- 
gin," said  Alexis. 

The  piano  started. 

"First  two  forward  I  Balance!  .  .  .  Stop!"  said  Alexis.  "A  fold  loosened 
in  the  skirt,  at  the  right  hip,  nothing  else.  Thank  you,  Mademoiselle,  the  trial  is 
over.  You  understand  the  importance  of  it  now?  Such  an  accident  in  a  ball- 
room,— what  an  annoyance  to  you  and  what  a  disgrace  to  me!  I  should  be 
ruined!  Farewell  the  throne!  Alexis  would  abdicate  like  Charles  X.  .  .  and  un- 
fortunately, though  power  is  hereditary,  genius  is  not,  and  my  son  is  only  a  good 
dancer.  Frontin,  serve." 

Then  the  valet  offered  refreshments  on  trays  worthy  of  the  customers. 

During  all  these  Parisian  follies  a  serious  thing  had  occurred. 

Frinlair  and  Claire  had  slipped  into  the  unoccupied  boudoir,  their  absence  un- 
noticed by  Alexis  and  Berthe  absorbed  in  the  dress;  and  they  returned  equally 
unobserved,  after  having  confirmed  their  betrothal  under  the  auspices,  this  time, 
of  the  priest  and  king  of  fashion. 

The  second  offenders  having  partaken  of  the  refreshments  with  Berthe,  all  went 
away  contented,  especially  Frinlair,  reflecting  upon  this  modification  of  Bazile's 
proverb :  "  The  pitcher  goes  so  often  to  the  well  that  at  last  .  .  ."  and  upon  the 
morality  of  Ventron :  "  The  end  justifies  the  means." 

Marie,  left  face  to  face  with  Alexis,  made  bold  to  say  to  him  then : 

"Monsieur,  I  came  to  offer  you".  .  . 

"  Ah  I  to  be  sure  I     A  dollar  for  the  pose.    Froutin,  take  her  to  the  cashier." 

Then  the  employer  drank  a  glass  of  champagne  with  his  son  and  went  out  with 
him. 

Frontin  in  turn  swallowed  an  ice  and  offered  one  to  Marie,  who  refused. 

"  Well,  my  beauty,"  be  said  to  her,  "  you  see  you  may  believe  Frontin ;  did  he 
not  tell  you  so?  A  dollar  a  day,  with  board,  washing,  and  maintenance  .  .  .  not 
much  work,  and  ices  to  eat  .  .  .  and  love!  Come  and  get  your  money  and  see 
your  room,  dear  little  Marton." 

And  this  airy  faun,  taking  her  around  the  waist,  tried  to  kiss  her  on  account,  as 
he  led  her  along. 

"  Insolent  fellow  1 "  she  cried,  "  let  me  alone." 

And  by  a  sudden  effort  she  released  herself  from  this  valet  of  the  boudoir, 
worthy  of  being  a  vicar  to  the  priest  of  Saint-Roch. 


The  &trting-Box.  167 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  TWENTY-FOURTH  OF  FEBRUARY. 

'On  the  Twenty-Fourth  of  February,  1848,  the  municipal  guard,  composed  in 
great  part  of  the  old  royal  guard  of  Charles  X,  which  it  had  replaced  under  Louis 
Philippe,  sharply  defended  the  Tuileries,  but  at  last  was  forced  to  yield  by  the 
People. 

The  soldiers  of  the  line  were  the  first  to  turn  up  their  gun-stocks  and  fraternize 
amid  reciprocal  cries  of  "Loug  live  the  People!"  "Long  live  the  Linel" 

It  was  a  decided  victory  for  the  insurre  ction.  The  battle  begun  with  the  cry  of 
"Long  live  Reform!"  ended  with  the  cry  of  "Long  live  the  Republic!" 

For  having  interfered  with  the  pear  and  calf's-head  banquets,  the  king  of  the 
strong-box,  like  his  cousin,  the  king  of  the  altar,  lost  his  crown. 

For  having  refused  qualified  suffra  ge,  he  granted  universal  suffrage,  to  both  the 
qualified  and  the  unqualified. 

And  the  unfortunate  pear-king  got  into  a  cab  crying  in  his  despair :  "  Like 
Charles  X.  .  .  .  !" 

Like  him  also  and  with  the  same  madness  he  said  to  his  Polignac,  to  Guizot : 
"  The  troops  will  not  fire,  then  fire  on  the  troops ! " 

In  short,  like  him,  he  made  concessions,  and  received  the  same  reply:  "Too 
late!" 

So  the  Tuileries  were  taken  by  a  handful  of  Republicans,  at  the  head  of  whom 
figured  Camille  and  the  workman  with  a  hammer. 

The  workman,  with  that  honesty  characteristic  of  the  people,  wrote  on  the  door 
of  the  palace:  "Death  to  thieves!"  and  Camillej  remembering  the  bread-tickets, 
wrote  on  the  front :  "  For  Labor's  disabled  civilians ! " 

The  rooms  overflowed  with  people  singing  the  "Marseillaise,"  cutting  up  the 
throne,  throwing  the  pieces  through  the  windows,  gilded  wood  and  velvet  hangings 
broken  and  torn  into  bits.  ...  I  am  writing  this  story  in  slippers  made  from  one 
of  those  rags. 

And  all  this  litter  was  burned  by  Camille  on  the  Place  du  Carrousel,  together 
with  the  scaffold  and  the  confessional  of  the  royal  chapel,  amid  the  cries,  a  thou- 
gand  times  repeated:  "Long  live  the  People!"  "Down  with  the  death  penalty!" 
-"Long  live  humanity!" 


158  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

At  the  palace  of  the  archbishop  the  same  revenge ! 

Fire  purified  at  the  Tuileries ;  at  the  archbishop's  palace  it  was  water. 

The  Seine  carried  away  all  the  filth  that  the  People  found  in  the  palace  of  the 
priest,  as  the  flames  consumed  all  the  infamies  that  they  found  in  the  palace  of  the 
king. 

Here  crown,  charter,  and  code;  there  mitre,  Bible,  and  missal,  to  say  nothing  of 
skirts,  corsets,  and  pomatum;  in  short,  the  double  stables  of  Augeas,  royal  and 
clerical,  the  Herculean  broom  of  the  People  thoroughly  cleaning  them  out. 

Camille,  after  taking  possession  of  the  castle  in  the  name  of  the  people  and  de- 
dicating it  to  Labor,  went  to  the  office  of  the  "National,"  where  the  list  of  the 
provisional  government  was  made  up;  and  he  was  one  of  the  three  delegates  who 
carried  it  to  the  II6tel  de  Ville. 

Camille  found  there  but  one  of  the  members -elect,  the  Chevalier  de  Lamartiue, 
an  old  member  of  the  body-guard,  a  romantic  poet,  a  Legitimist  who  detested  the 
Orleans  family  and  had  become  a  republican  in  writing  the  "History  of  the 
Girondists." 

He  was  not,  like  his  fellow-poet,  Victor  Hugo,  a  republican  of  tomorrow,  but  a 
republican  of  yesterday.  He  was  already  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville  when  the  other 
was  still  at  the  Rue  de  Poitiers.  Consequently  he  has  had  only  a  statue  at  Passy, 
while  the  other  is  in  the  Pantheon.  Distributive  justice. 

Camille  caused  Lamartiue  to  perform  the  provisional  government's  first  act  of 
republicanism. 

"It  is  not  enough  to  have  driven  the  Orleans  family  from  Paris,"  he  said  to  him; 
"it  is  necessary  to  prevent  them  from  returning.  The  youngest  of  the  princes,  the 
Duke  de  Montpensier,  is  still  at  Vincennes  with  his  artillery.  We  must  bar  his 
passage,  and  cut  him  off  from  the  Avenue  de  Vincennes  by  a  strong  barricade. 
Sign  the  order,  and  I  will  execute  it." 

Let  this  troubadour  of  the  coronation  be  given  credit  for  it,  —  it  was  no  sooner 
said  than  done. 

The  order  executed,  Camille  came  back  at  night  to  the  H6tel  de  Ville,  where  the 
government  had  taken  up  its  quarters.  The  scramble  for  the  quarry  began. 

Of  all  the  old  personages  Tvhom  we  met  at  the  Berville  dinner  before  the  fall  of 
Charles  X,  but  two  were  left  at  the  fall  of  Louis  Philippe, — Arago,  the  savant, 
and  the  venerable  Dupont  de  1'Eure,  as  they  were  called.  The  others  were  new 
men,  young  then,  Ledru-Rollin,  Louis  Blanc,  Flocon,  Marrast,  Albert,  etc.  The 
old,  fatigued  and  drowsy,  slept  lethargically,  seated  around  a  table  served  with  a 
cold  bit  of  that  democratic  veal  forbidden  by  the  king.  The  young,  seated  with 
them,  thought  neither  of  sleeping  nor  of  eating,  for  the  People  were  surging  in  the 
square  and  shouting  louder  and  louder :  "  Long  live  the  Republic  I " 

The  provisional  government,  hungrier  for  office  than  for  veal,  constituted  itself 
in  its  own  way,  which  was  not  exactly  that  of  the  People. 


TJie  Strong-Box.  159 

They  may  be  said  to  have  divided  the  Republic  between  the  men  of  the  "Nati- 
onal "  and  the  men  of  the  "  Reforme." 

Each  of  these  two  journals,  to  the  establishment  of  which  Camille  had  contri- 
buted, took  and  distributed  the  portfolios. 

Louis  Blanc,  with  his  child's  stature,  cramped  in  his  military  garb,  carrying  a 
cartridge-box,  long  shoulder-belts  and  straps,  a  sword  dangling  between  his  legs, 
and  a  gun  taller  than  himself,  had  an  appetite  that  exceeded  his  stature.  He  made 
himself  president  of  the  Labor  Senate  of  the  Luxembourg,  and  gave  the  manage- 
ment of  the  fine  arts  to  his  brother  Charles. 

Ledru,  his  extreme  opposite,  a  giant  contrasted  with  a  dwarf,  but  having  an 
equal  appetite,  became  minister  of  the  interior,  giving  the  secretaryship  to  1m 
friend  Jules  Favre. 

Arago,  the  savant,  took  the  ministry  of  marine,  and  gave  the  office  of  prefect  of 
Lyons  to  his  son  Emmanuel. 

It  was  a  dynastic  Republic. 

Finally  Lamartine,  minister  of  foreign  affairs,  offered  the  secretaryship  to  his 
friend  Bastide  for  the  love  of  the  pope,  and  the  Roman  embassy  to  Camille,  who, 
on  that  sad  night  of  the  bourgeois  Fourth  of  August,  alone  refused,  saying  in  a 
melancholy  voice  that  he  was  going  to  be  married  and  wanted  nothing  —  save  to 
make  young  citizens  for  the  Republic,  which  seemed  to  need  them. 

Each  was  drawing  the  cloth  toward  him  and  sharing  the  cake,  when  the  work- 
man of  the  Mount  of  Piety,  Chaumette  Brutus,  threw  his  blood-stained  hammer 
upon  the  table,  shouting:  "And  labor?" 

It  was  the  first  false  or  true  note,  discordant  in  any  case,  to  ring  out  in  the  bour- 
geois concert. 

"  Labor ! "  said  the  man  of  the  forty-five  centimes,  another  dynastic  republican, 
half-brother  of  Gamier  Pages ;  "  labor  I  let  it  follow  Louis  Blanc  to  the  Luxem- 
bourg or  Emile  Thomas  to  the  national  workshops  ! " 

"  One  does  not  live  by  words  alone ;  he  must  have  bread  also !  In  the  land  of  pro- 
mises they  die  of  hunger,"  answered  the  workman. 

"But  wait!     One  cannot  reap  the  s-ame  day  he  sows;  patience!" 

"Well,  we  will  give  the  Republic  three  months'  credit." 

And,  picking  up  his  hammer,  he  went  out  with  Camille,  amid  an  amazement 
and  even  terror  that  was  soon  dissipated. 

And  the  scramble  for  the  quarry  continued.  .  .  . 

Schcelcher  got  the  colonies,  Duclerc  the  finances,  Cremieux  the  department  of 
justice,  Marrast  the  mayoralty  of  Paris,  and  the  People — the  forty-five  centimes 
to  pay ! 


160  The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  XIL 

THE  TWENTY-FOUBTH  OF  FEBBUAKY.  —  TflE  LUXEMBOURG. 

The  old  palace  of  the  Luxembourg,  that  copy  of  the  Pitti  palace  which  the 
second  Medici,  Marie,  of  but  little  more  worth  than  the  first,  brought  us  from 
Florence,  has  sheltered  by  turns  the  conservative  Senate  of  the  Empire,  so  called 
doubtless  because  it  conserved  neither  the  Empire  nor  the  Senate,  and  the  heredi- 
tary and  life  peerages  of  the  kingdoms,  to  say  nothing  of  what  it  may  have  to 
shelter  yet;  for  it  has  had  the  good  fortune  to  escape  the  popular  fire  which,  in 
the  absence  of  celestial  fire,  has  avenged  at  least  the  Gomorrah  of  the  Tuileries, 
built  by  Catherine,  where  queens  had  mistresses  and  kings  lovers. 

On  the  Twenty-Fourth  of  February  the  peers  of  King  Louis  Philippe  had  held 
their  last  session  under  the  presidency  of  the  famous  Duke  Pasquier,  who  had  con- 
voked them  to  receive  the  regent,  the  Duchess  d'Orleans,  and  her  son,  the  Count 
de  Paris,  then  heir  to  the  crown  and  today  pretender. 

But,  with  the  courageous  fidelity  of  peers  and  senators  devoted  by  profession 
and  oath  to  constitutional  conservatism,  these  Newfoundland  dogs  of  the  throne 
and  the  altar,  these  saviours  of  State  and  Church,  had,  the  most  of  them,  failed  of 
attendance  and  left  the  president,  the  regent,  and  her  minor  in  the  lurch. 

The  sovereign  People  had  sent  their  delegates  to  take  the  place  of  the  life  legis- 
lators. The  Chamber  of  Peers  had  become  the  Senate  of  workers.  Labor  sat  in 
the  seat  of  privilege;  and  for  the  first  time  the  palace  of  the  Luxembourg  was  of 
public  utility  and  national  service. 

Louis  Blanc  presided  in  place  of  Pasquier. 

And  the  benches  emptied  by  the  noble  cronies  of  the  duke  —  barons,  marquises, 
counts,  and  viscounts,  the  entire  nobility  old  and  new,  pure-blooded  like  Garousse 
or  smuggled  like  Pasquier,  from  the  prince  royal  to  the  vidames  d'espagnolette — 
were  filled  by  the  real  nobility,  not  that  of  peers,  but  that  of  comrades,  that  of  la- 
bor and  science,  that  of  which  it  will  be  the  eternal  glory  of  the  second  Republic 
to  have  declared  the  right  and  proclaimed  the  advent. 

There  all  the  aspirations  of  the  nineteenth  century,  ours,  all  the  schools  that 
they  have  produced,  all  the  theories  and  Utopias  that  they  have  promulgated,  were 
worthily  represented. 

For  the  first  time  the  world,  through  its  foremost  people,  France,  saw  a  congress 


The,  Strong-Box*  l6l 

of  workers,  a  labor  council,  a  parliament  composed  of  laborers  for  deliberation  up- 
on the  social  future  of  humanity. 

As  in  every  parliament,  there  were  parties.  They  were  called  systems;  Of  thesd 
parties  each  had  its  part  of  the  truth,  for  there  errors  were  not  centra-truths^  but 
parts  of  truth,  each,  as  the  Indian  fable  says,  having  picked  up  only  one  of  the 
thousand  faces  of  the  mirror  fallen  from  heaven,  none  having  had  a  hand  large 
enough  to  pick  up  all  of  them. 

Yes,  all  these  parties  of  the  Republic  of  February  followed  the  law  of  the  division 
of  labor  itself,  and,  to  better  bring  out  all  the  consequences  of  a  principle,  had  di- 
vided between  them  the  three  great  principles  of  the  French  Revolution,  as  reli- 
gious sects  divide  between  themselves  the  dogmas  of  the  Bible. 

The  error  was  simply  that  ....  a  heresy.  Let  us  throw  no  stone  at  them. 
They  had  passion,  devotion,  and  belief,  complete  republican  virtue,  but  not  com- 
plete knowledge.  Not  in  the  least  were  they  sceptics,  or  opportunists,  or  egoists, 
or  traitors,  and  they  did  not  sacrifice  "principles  to  colonies"  and  the  ideal  to 
results. 

The  Fourierists  represented  only  liberty  without  equality. 

The  Saint-Simonians,  equality  without  liberty. 

The  third,  the  Icarians,  simply  fraternity. 

The  authoritarians  said :  Everything  through  the  State.  The  libertarians : 
Everything  through  the  individual. 

The  truth  is  that  man  is  at  once  individual  and  collective,  regulated  by  two 
forces,  centripetal  and  centrifugal,  and  that  the  law  lies  not  in  the  opposition,  but 
in  the  composition,  of  the  two  forces. 

"Mutualism,  exchange,  no  association,"  said  the  followers  of  Proudhon;  "each 
man  to  have  his  own  lantern  at  his  own  door." 

"No  individualism,"  answered  the  followers  of  Leroux;  "association,  solidarity, 
the  circulus,  even  a  common  chamber-vessel." 

Said  these : 

"  No  sentiment,  no  mysticism,  no  metaphysics  1 " 

Said  those : 

"  Sensation,  sentiment,  knowledge,  the  human  trinity,  manufacturers,  artists, 
and  scientists  .  .  .  the  whole  crowned  by  the  Comtists  with  their  pope  and  popess, 
the  rehabilitation  of  woman,  the  worship  of  great  men  and  anthropotheism." 

Certainly,  a  deep  faith  in  the  human  ideal ;  fanaticism  for  humanity  was  the 
substratum  of  these  contrary  theories, —  contrary  because  separated, — of  these  er- 
rors which  required  but  union  to  become  truths,  of  these  Utopias  which  needed 
only  fusion  to  become  realities. 

So  this  splitting-up,  this  cancelment  and  separation  of  the  principles  of  '93,  were 
denounced  by  the  friend  of  Camille  who  reflected  his  ideas,  the  workman  with  the 
hammer,  who,  from  the  height  of  the  tribune,  said : 


The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"  Citizens : 

"  You  destroy  unity,  you  divide  the  indivisible.  .  .     No  sects!     The  Revolution! 

"  My  name  is  Chaumette.  I  am  the  son  of  the  great  Communist.  My  father 
was  master  of  Paris,  and  my  child,  like  the  children  of  Rousseau  and  so  many 
others,  has  lived  in  the  hospital. 

"  I  represent  the  idea  for  which  my  father  died,  and  which,  dying  with  him, 
carried  the  Revolution  to  the  tomb. 

"  The  Revolution  is  the  Commune,  and  the  Commune  is  Paris,  and  Paris  is  France. 

"As  long  as  the  Commune  of  Paris  lived,  the  Revolution  lived.  As  soon  as  the 
Commune  died,  the  Revolution  died.  It  was  the  Commune  that  cried:  'Cannon- 
eers, to  your  guns!'  and  saved  the  Republic  from  the  Gironde.  It  was  the  Com- 
mune that  declared  'the  Country  in  danger'  and  saved  France  from  Prussia.  It 
was  the  Commune,  finally,  that,  killed  by  Robespierre,  was  unable  to  save  the  Re- 
public from  the  Empire  or  France  from  invasion. 

"The  Commune  alone  can  save  the  second  Republic  as  it  did  the  first,  and  once 
more  save  the  Revolution  and  France. 

"My  system,  my  school,  my  especial  theory,  is  revolution.  I  am  not  a  sectarian, 
I  wish  complete  revolution,  one  and  indivisible  in  its  three  principles,  Liberty, 
Equality,  Fraternity,  founded  on  its  historical  and  political  basis,  the  free  com- 
mune in  the  nation,  like  the  free  nation  in  humanity;  established  on  the  rights  of 
man,  of  the  citizen,  and  of  the  laborer ;  the  ballot,  the  bullet,  and  the  soil  universal ; 
each  his  own  soldier,  his  own  king,  his  own  master,  in  short,  the  complete  sove- 
reignty of  the  People. 

"The  sovereign  People  has  replaced  the  legitimate  king  and  the  middle-class 
king.  It  is  not  like  any  other  king.  It  is  a  king  without  subjects.  It  is  the  la- 
borer king.  It  does  not  reign  by  force,  war,  or  plunder;  it  can  reign  and  live 
only  by  work,  peace,  and  right.  Its  civil  list  is  its  product,  its  throne  its  anvil, 
its  sceptre  its  tool,  its  code  justice,  and  its  kingdom  labor. 

"  It  has  no  enemies  but  the  elements,  no  conquests  but  over  matter,  no  war  but 
labor.  This  war  has  its  victims,  its  wounded,  and  soon  its  column  will  replace  all 
the  columns  of  the  Caesars,  crowned,  as  '93  intended,  by  the  statue  of  the  laborer. 

"The  priest  has  made  labor  a  penalty,  the  noble  has  made  it  a  shame,  the  bour- 
geois has  made  it  &  favor,  the  people  makes  it  its  right.  And  to  that  end  it  has 
other  Bastilles  to  take.  After  the  king's,  the  jail,  it  must  take  the  priest's,  the 
church,  and  the  master's,  the  Bank.  It  must  free  itself  from  the  triple  tyranny, 
—  servitude,  ignorance,  and  poverty.  It  has  raised  the  Genius  of  Liberty  on  the 
site  of  the  Bastille,  it  must  raise  the  statue  of  Equality  at  the  cross-streets  where 
stands  the  Bank,  and  that  of  Fraternity  in  the  porch  of  Notre-Dame. 

"Then,  citizens,  the  Revolution  will  be  saved,  because  it  will  be  completed." 

Thus  these  doctors  sought,  in  good  faith  and  in  proportion  to  their  knowledge,  the 
best  remedy  for  the  second  republic,  already  threatened  with  a  return  of  imperial 
eclampsy  and  all  its  fatal  consequences, — scaffold,  throne,  altar,  and  strong-box. 


The   Strong-Box.  163 

In  these  days  Father  Jean  never  left  the  Luxembourg,  —  that  is,  the  door. 
There  were  so  many  bills  there,  so  much  waste  paper  with  which  to  fill  his  basket! 
As  many  constitutions  voted  as  Aristotle  wrote,  and  all  lost  like  his  and  even  like 
ours,  at  least  fifteen  up  to  the  present  time. 


END  OF  PART  SECOND. 


164  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 


PART  THIRD. 

THE  MASQUERADE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  TEMPTATION. 

Twenty  years  to  a  day  have  elapsed  since  the  crime  of  the  Quai  d'Austerlitz. 

It  is  Mardi-Gras,  1848. 

The  people,  sovereign  in  name  but  not  in  fact,  has  replaced  the  citizen-king. 

The  carnival  is  back  again,  and  misery  has  remained,  —  both  of  them  more 
stable  than  governments. 

The  second  Republic  is  founded. 

The  Revolution  has  not  impoverished  the  bankers,  and  consequently  has  not  en- 
riched the  rag-pickers.  Baron  Hoffmann  still  has  his  millions,  as  Father  Jean  still 
has  his  rags. 

It  was  night;  alone  in  her  garret,  Marie  was  working  on  a  silk  dress  trimmed 
with  lace. 

"Half  past  eleven,"  she  whispered,  looking  at  her  watch  and  then  sewing  again ',. 
"my  eyes,  my  hands  are  weary.  I  can  no  longer  hold  my  needle.  .  .  I  am  be- 
numbed, and  —  I  know  not  why — I  feel  like  crying.  .  .  But  come!  to  work!  .  . 
I  must  finish  my  task,  and  return  this  wedding  dress.  .  .  My  fire  is  low,  my  lamp 
is  going  out." 

She  trimmed  the  wick,  which  was  getting  charred,  and  resumed  her  reflections. 

"  How  dark  it  is,  how  cold  it  is  I  Oh  1  how  cold  the  dead  must  be  under  ground  I 
....  But  I  am  stupid.  They  are  less  uncomfortable  than  the  living.  I  wish  I 
were  dead,  like  my  poor  parents.  Am  I  not  alone  already,  as  much  so  as  if  I  were 
buried?  And  to  that  add  labor  and  poverty." 

She  redoubled  her  activity. 

"  What  a  dress !  .  .  .  It  is  an  endless  task ;  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  were  sewing" 
my  shroud.  Ah !  if  my  mother  were  only  with  me,  I  should  still  have  courage, 
In  kissing  her  morning  and  evening,  I  at  least  regained  the  strength  to  work  when 
I  worked  for  two,  to  earn  the  daily  bread  when  there  were  two  of  us  to  eat  it." 

She  wiped  away  a  tear. 


The  Masquerade.  165 

"But  now  that  I  am  alone  in  the  world,  I  have  no  heart  left  for  anything.  I 
cannot  even  finish  this  dress  at  the  appoi  nted  hour.  Cursed  thread  that  is  always 
breaking." 

And  again  threading  her  needle,  she  continued : 

"  After  all,  what  am  I  and  what  is  to  become  of  me?  What  a  present  and  what 
a  future  1  Fatigue  and  lack  of  sleep  when  work  is  pressing;  hunger  and  torture 
in  the  dull  season  .  .  .  and  always  alone.  That  is  my  lot!  Should  I  be  more 
alone  in  the  grave  than  in  this  room?  I  should  know  less  want,  fatigue,  and  ennui. 
Ahl  I  should  like  to  go  to  join  my  father  and  my  mother.  I  should  like  to  die." 

She  gazed  for  a  moment  at  the  portraits  of  her  parents  placed  upon  the  mantle- 
shelf  under  the  globe  of  her  modest  clock. 

"  It  seems  as  if  their  dear  inftge  gave  me  new  life,  as  if  their  eyes  were  looking 
at  me,  as  if  their  lips  were  calling  me.  They  fill  me  with  hallucination  .  .  .  But 
I  have  no  tune  to  dream  when  there  is  such  a  hurry  for  this  dress." 

She  went  to  work  again  with  more  fever  than  attention. 

"  There  1 "  she  cried  suddenly,  "  now  I  prick  myself,  to  advance  matters.  I  must 
not  spot  it  at  the  last  moment." 

And  at  last  having  finished  it,  she  said: 

"Ah!  it  is  done,  and  no  damage." 

She  stuck  her  needle  in  her  cushion,  took  off  her  thimble,  rose,  and,  carrying 
her  lamp  to  the  bureau,  undressed  to  try  on  the  new  garment. 

"  Let  me  see  if  it  fits,"  she  said,  fastening  the  waist  and  looking  at  herself  in  the 
little  glass.  "  That's  it !  Happy  woman  who  will  wear  it !  The  pain  for  me,  the 
joy  for  her.  Married,  loved,  feted  in  this  dress.  It  fits  me  well  too,"  she  contin- 
ued with  a  sigh.  "But  what's  the  use?  What  good  does  it  do  me  to  be  young 
and  beautiful,  if  I  must  live  thus  isolated,  in  a  corner,  in  abandonment?  Shall  I 
not  always  be  poor?  Shall  I  ever  have  such  a  dress  for  myself?" 

As  she  kept  on  looking  at  herself,  she  spoke  in  a  more  satisfied  tone: 

"It  is  singular;  if  I  continue  to  look,  I  shall  come  to  believe  it.  My  mirror  says 
BO,  the  liar  I  Why,  yes,  I  could  wear  silk  as  well  as  another.  What  else  should  I 
need  with  this  white  dress?  A  pearl  necklace  and  a  rose  in  my  hair." 

She  took  a  rose  from  a  little  vase. 

"  There !  And  then,  thus  dressed  up,  I  should  have  a  carriage,  with  two  horses, 
to  go  to  an  evening  party  ....  no,  to  the  play  ....  no,  to  a  ball  .  .  .  yes,  to  a 
ball!" 

She  leaped  with  joy. 

"There  my  admirers  would  say  in  low  tones:  'What  a  pretty  girl!'  I  should 
pass  by  without  seeming  to  hear  and  yet  hearing  everything.  .  .  Then  the  hand- 
somest invites  me  to  dance.  .  .  .  Then  he  loves  me,  marries  me  .  .  .  and  we  live 
long,  happy,  happy.  ...  Oh !  how  silly  I  am  !  Yet  there  are  those  who  have  all 
these  Joys.  .  .  .  Love,  family,  fortune.  But  I  shall  die  without  knowing^  them.'' 


166  The  Hag-Picker   of  Paris. 

She  stopped  to  listen  to  the  sounds  and  cries  of  the  carnival  rising  from  the 
street.  Then  she  continued  sadly : 

"I  should  never  marry.  .  .  .  Ohl  the  ball-room,  the  masquerade  which  I  have 
never  seen,  the  music,  the  dancing,  the  pleasures  of  others!  But  of  what  am  I 
thinking  tonight?  These  songs,  these  noises,  make  me  lose  my  head.  .  .  No,  no, 
all  these  joys  are  not  made  for  me.  .  .  .  For  me,  an  old  maid,  neither  wife  nor 
mother,  a  hospital  frock  for  a  wedding  dress  .  .  .  solitude,  labor,  and  death." 

She  gave  a  last  look  at  the  glass,  and  was  getting  ready  to  take  off  the  dress, 
when  a  swarm  of  young  girls  in  disguise,  acquaintances  of  the  shop,  whom  she  had 
met  in  going  to  get  work  or  to  return  it,  burst  noisily  into  Marie's  room. 

In  front  Mazagran  and  Trompette,  the  one  as  a^ouave,  the  other  as  a  hussar  of 
the  fancy.  Behind  them  other  grisettes,  less  forward  surely,  and  disguised  as  titis 
and  lumpers. 

"Up  at  this  hour! "  cried  Mazagran,  surprising  Marie  at  the  mirror,  "and  in  full 
dress  1  Gracious  1 " 

Trompette,  Louisa,  Pauline,  and  the  others  came  forward  also  with  their 
ezclamations. 

"Ahl  sly  boots,  we've  caught  you!" 

"Then  you  have  decided  at  last?" 

"Goodl  you  are  coming  with  us?" 

Marie,  in  confusion,  tried  to  explain  and  escape  from  these  too  noisy  friends  or 
rather  comrades. 

"No,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  was  trying  on  this  dress  which  I  have  finished." 

But  Mazagran  would  not  listen  to  this. 

"You  have  it  on,  keep  it  on!" 

And  the  others  approved. 

"Yes,  just  once." 

"It  fits  you  so  well!" 

"  Like  a  glove." 

"A  little  high,"  observed  Mazagran,  who  had  her  reasons  for  liking  low-necked 
dresses. 

"Never  mind,  come  just  the  same,"  said  Louisa. 

Marie  still  refused. 

"  But  it  is  not  mine,  as  you  can  plainly  see." 

Mazagran,  demoralized  since  she  had  changed  Frinlair  for  Camille,  replied: 

"Bah  I  my  dear,  you  have  made  enough  of  them  for  others.  You  may  well  wear 
one  yourself.  You  will  make  a  lady  much  better  than  the  lady  could  make  a  dress. 
Come." 

"  The  captain  is  right,"  approved  Trompette. 

"Yes,  yes,"  cried  the  madcaps  all  together. 

"Besides,"  continued  Mazagran,  with  her  democratic  philosophy,  "it  is  in  the 
interest  of  the  dress;  its  faults  can  be  seen  better  by  trying  it." 


The  Masquerade.  167 

And  all  applauded. 

"Tistrue." 

"Undoubtedly." 

"Certainly." 

"Bravo!" 

"  Very  good  I " 

Mazagran  enjoyed  her  popularity  for  a  moment,  and  then  decided  in  a  tone  that 
admitted  no  reply : 

"  It  is  unanimous  1  Everything  is  allowable  in  time  of  Carnival.  Lent  is  long 
enough  ...  let  us  go  to  the  Opera." 

"To  the  Opera  1"  exclaimed  Marie,  with  a  mixture  of  curiosity,  fear,  and  envy, 
as  if  a  vision  of  pleasures  and  festivities  had  suddenly  flashed  across  her  mind. 

"To  the  Opera  1"  repeated  Mazagran,  scanning  the  three  magic  syllables  and 
exaggerating  the  effect  produced. 

"After  the  ball,  a  supper,"  she  added,  detailing  and  multiplying  the  charm. 
"And  at  the  Gilded  House  (Maison-Doree)  with  the  gilded  youth.  .  .  .  Twenty 
dollars  a  plate  without  wine." 

"And  all  the  early  fruits,"  said  the  glutton,  Trompette. 

Each  smacked  her  lips  in  advance  over  her  favorite  delicacy. 

"  We  shall  eat  strawberries." 

"And  pine-apples." 

"And  melon." 

"And  Russian  caviare!"  finished  Mazagran,  "and  English  plum  pudding,  and 
all  sorts  of  things;  an  international  supper  with  a  universal  bill  of  fare;  something 
for  all  tastes,  rendering  a  choice  embarrassing,  among  men  as  well  as  dishes  .  .  . 
To  the  Opera!" 

And  the  mad  girls  surrounded  Marie,  shaken,  fascinated,  won,  almost  all  of  them 
dancing,  shouting,  and  singing : 

"  To  the  Opera  I     To  the  Opera  1 " 

"Ah I  the  Opera  must  be  very  delightful,"  murmured  Marie,  "but  I  dare  not." 

"  Nonsense,  Miss  Virtuous  1 "  cried  Mazagran,  contemptuously.  "  What  is  there 
to  hinder  you?  Poor  nun,  you  are  dying  of  ennui;  we  want  to  amuse  you.  You 
cannot  toil  forever.  One  must  laugh  occasionally.  How  you  will  enjoy  yourself! 
The  triumph  and  death  of  the  great  Chicard.  A  hundred  musicians,  a  thousand 
dancers,  galop,  gala,  green-room,  refreshment  room,  and  sherbets,  —  and  supper  to 
conclude.  Champagne  continually,  truffles  everywhere,  and  everything  iced.  .  .  . 
except  love.  Come,  once  is  not  a  habit,  dear  Cinderella.  We  will  take  you. 
Don't  be  afraid,  we  will  bring  you  back,  and  in  your  dress,  I  promise  you." 

"All  right  as  far  as  the  dress  is  concerned,"  said  Marie,  overcome,  "but".  .  . 

"No  buts,". retorted  Mazagran.    "Engaged,  drafted." 

And  she  began  to  sing : 


168  The  Bay-Picker  of  Paris. 

Aliens  enfants  de  la  Courtille, 
Lejour  de  boire  est  arrive! 

"  Enrolled  1 "  concluded  Trompette. 

"  Enrolled  1 "  repeated  the  chorus. 

"But  I  have  nothing  to  wear  on  my  head,"  ventured  Marie,  resisting  as  a  matter 
of  form. 

"Ah I  yes,"  exclaimed  Mazagran,  who  deemed  the  objection  a  serious  one. 
"And  a  woman  with  nothing  on  her  head  is  a  soldier  without  arms.  But  with 
this  remnant  of  lace  we  will  make  you  an  undress-cap.  A  careless  dress  for  the 
head  is  now  the  thing.  Let  us  to  work  at  once  and  with  big  stitches." 

"To  work  I"  again  exclaimed  the  chorus  of  obstinate  inveiglers. 

And  Mazagran  began. 

"  You  shall  see  how  quickly  we  will  fix  you  out." 

"  What  ardor  I "  exclaimed  Marie,  smiling  in  spite  of  herself.  "  There  is  nothing 
like  working  for  pleasure." 

"Sound,  trumpets  1"  (trompettes)  exclaimed  Mazagran,  turning  to  her  comrade 
and  laughing  at  her  pun. 

Trompette,  without  further  urging,  began  in  a  falsetto  voice  the  popular  Car- 
nival song,  La  rifla,  fla,  fla  ! 


Vive  I' Optra,  vive  I' Optra  I 
La  rifla,  fla,  fla  I 


And  all  joined  in  the  chorus  : 


Vive  I' Optra,  vive  I' Optra! 
Le  bonheur  est  lit ! 


Trompette  sang  the  verse : 


Napolton  Musard 
Et  son  ami  Chicard 
Commencent  sans  retard 
A  minuit  moms  un  quart. 

Vive  I' Optra,  etc. 
Pauline,  in  turn,  sang  her  verse : 

Aliens,  dtpechons-nous, 
Husstrds  est  tourlourous, 
Que  Musard  dise  a  tous 
Je  suis  content  de  vous. 

Vive  I' Optra,  etc. 
And  Mazagran,  while  at  work  on  Marie's  cap,  finished  the  song : 


The,  Masquerade.  169 

Au  bal  de  I'  Optra, 
Lejour  du  Mardi-Gras, 
Le  dernier  des  soldats 
Meurt  et  n«  se  rend  pas. 

Vive  I' Optra,  vive  I' Optra! 

La  rifla,fla,flal 
Vive  I' Optra,  vive  I' Optra/ 

Le  bonheur  est  lit  I 

Mazagran  rose. 

"D-o-n-e,  done,"  she  cried.  "There's  a  cap  for  youl  What  chic!  Isn't  she 
beautiful?" 

"  The  most  beautiful  of  all,"  said  Trompette,  who  always  echoed  the  opinion  of 
her  companion  in  pleasures. 

"Beautiful  to  exhibit,"  continued  Mazagran,  "  to  beat  all  women  and  to  set  beat- 
ing all  men's  hearts.  We  give  her  whips  with  which  to  lash  us.  So  much  the 
worse ;  the  voice  of  conscience  bids  us  show  her,  and  it  would  be  a  sin  to  leave  her 
here".  .  .  . 

Marie  made  a  last  show  of  resistance ;  perhaps  the  memory  of  her  mother  or  the 
fear  of  paining  Jean,  who  had  been  left  to  guard  and  protect  her,  still  held  her 
back. 

"Ahl  what  am  I  about  to  do?    You  infatuate  me." 

But  Mazagran,  her  leader,  would  not  listen ,  and,  placing  her  at  the  head  of  the 
others,  gave  her  orders  to  her  troop  of  merry-makers. 

"  Fall  in !     Attention !     Quick  time !     Forward  —  march  1 " 

And,  willy-nilly,  Marie,  made  prisoner  by  her  comrades,  suffered  herself  to  be 
pushed  outside,  while  the  mad  band  again  took  up  the  chorus  triumphantly: 

Vive  V  Optra,  vive  V  Optra  I 

Scarcely  were  they  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  when  Jean,  alone  in  his  loft,  situated 
over  Marie's  room,  was  awakened  by  the  tumult  and  lighted  his  lantern. 

"Oh  !  oh  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "the  neighborhood  is  in  high  glee  tonight.  What  a 
racket !  Come,  rag-pickers,  lovers,  and  all  other  night-birds,  our  year  is  composed 
of  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  nights.  Night  is  our  day,  —  a  day  of  joy  for  some, 
and  of  pain  for  others." 

He  picked  up  his  basket,  and,  looking  at  it,  continued : 

"  To  work,  old  girl ;  let  us  leave  pleasure  to  the  young.  The  devil  1  she  is  a  lit- 
tle worn  like  myself;  I  shall  need  another  soon.  A  long  time  she  has  served  me. 
....  Yes,  since  the  day  when  I  promised  that  poor  Didier  to  watch  over  his 
daughter.  Just  twenty  years  today,  great  Saint  Mardi-Gras  I  " 

And  flinging  his  basket  over  his  back,  he  said : 

"  There's  my  domino,  made  of  wicker  cashmere.     Let  us  go  to  work," 

On  his  way  down  he  stopped  to  listen  at  Marie's  door, 


170  The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"  Dear  little  neighbor,"  said  he,  tenderly,  "  she  is  doubtless  asleep,  for  her  day 
ends  when  mine  begins.  Softly,  that  I  may  not  disturb  her  rest.  Good  night, 
Mam'zelle  Marie,  good  night  1 " 

And  he  descended  in  his  turn. 


The  Masquerade.  171 


CHAPTER  II. 

JOURNALISTIC  MASQUERADE. 

While  Marie  thus  allowed  herself  to  go  with  Mazagran  and  company,  a  scene  no 
less  in  keeping  with  the  Carnival  was  being  enacted  in  the  editorial  room  of  Lou- 
chard's  journal,  where  were  gathered  Camille  and  his  usual  acquaintances,  —  Gri- 
pon,  the  broker,  Loiseau,  the  notary,  and  the  future  ambassador,  Frinlair,  who  had 
diplomatically  joined  Camille  in  the  movement  of  February. 

"Our  young  ladies  do  not  come,"  said  the  journalist,  looking  at  the  clock  and 
yawning.  "  Suppose  we  put  on  our  costumes  while  we  wait." 

"  Here  ?  "  exclaimed  the  notary,  somewhat  amazed. 

"  Bah  1  an  editorial  room  is  a  very  proper  place  for  turning  one's  coat  and  put- 
ting on  a  mask." 

And  he  sent  the  office  boy  to  get  four  costumes,  Camille  refusing  to  disguise 
himself.  Costumes  of  the  time,  and  befitting,  moreover,  the  four  persons,  —  a 
Robert  Macaire,  a  Harlequin,  a  Clown,  and  a  Merry  Andrew. 

Baron  Hoffmann's  ward  looked  for  a  moment  at  his  friends  thus  dressed,  and 
said,  jokingly : 

"  But  you  are  not  so  much  disguised ;  "  then  he  added,  still  laughing :  "  Stay,  I 
am  going  to  disguise  myself  too.  I  want  to  appear  as  a  journalist  .  .  .  and  make 
a  fortune  doubtless,  like  you,  Louchard.  Bes  ides,  it  is  a  way  of  avoiding  marriage, 
for  you  get  rich  with  your  pen,  to  say  nothing  of  your  coal  mine." 

"  Journalist  I  my  poor  friend,"  exclaimed  Louchard  in  astonishment.  "  Then 
you  think  the  term  synonymous  with  banker.  One  has  to  be  strong,  you  see  ".  .  . 

"  Nowhere  in  the  world  does  it  come  amiss  to  be  a  Hercules." 

"  Agreed ;  but  tell  us  how  you,  an  idealist,  would  ply  the  trade." 

Camille  smiled. 

"  Look  you,  masquerade  and  falsehood  prevail  everywhere  in  the  journalistic 
world ;  everything  is  false  in  the  newspaper,  even  to  its  date ;  one  cannot  even  be 
sure  of  the  day  of  the  month  from  it.  If  I  were  a  journalist,  I  should  aim  at  just 
the  contrary ;  I  should  try  to  unite  science  and  conscience,  substance  and  form,  art 
and  right ;  if  I  had  a  sheet,  truth  should  take  precedence  of  interest  in  it,  and  jus- 
tice of".  .  .  . 

"  Poor  fellow  1  you  would  not  make  your  expenses.  You  would  print  five  hun» 
dred  copies." 


172  The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"  So  be  it,  but  you,  my  dear  Louchard,  —  between  us  be  it  said,  —  you  may  print 
five  thousand,  but  make  no  imprint  on  the  world." 

"That's  ill-natured,  but  never  mind.  In  return  for  your  witticism,  I  will  give 
you  a  word  of  true  truth,  as  Figaro  says.  I  am  going  to  unveil  for  you  my 
machinery,  my  secret  as  a  manager  of  newspapers." 

"  I  am  listening." 

"  "What  is  a  journal  ?  A  bit  of  printed  paper  to  be  sold  to  the  public  or  to  the 
government.  The  money  of  the  public  is  as  good  as  the  secret  funds.  Both  should 
be  cultivated.  The  more  sheets  one  has,  the  more  one  lives.  Thus  under  royalty  I 
had  concurrently  the  '  Friend  of  the  King '  and  the  '  Friend  of  the  Charter ' ; 
now,  under  the  Republic,  I  manage  the  '  Social  Democracy '  and  the  '  Appeal  to 
the  People.' " 

"  Then  you  have  two  consciences  ?  " 

"  I  have  two  pockets." 

"  Go  on." 

"Every  evening  my  editors  ask  me:  'Whom  are  we  to  cut  to  pieces  or  deify  to- 
morrow?' And  I  name  the  victim  or  the  idol.  But  all  that  is  nothing,  a  few 
thousands,  a  mere  bagatelle,  good  enough  for  my  old  venal  teacher,  Charles 
Maurice.  But  I,  Louchard,  his  pupil,  am  going  to  establish  a  journal  which  will 
be  the  greatest  success  of  the  century.  We  shall  reach  a  million,  both  in  circula- 
tion and  receipts." 

"Oh!  oh!"  exclaimed  Frinlair,  "then  you  will  have  for  buyers  all  the  fools  in 
France  and  Algeria." 

"  You  have  said  it,"  said  Louchard  with  pride.  "  We  shall  become  of  public 
utility.  All  the  door-tenders,  fruit-sellers,  and  gossips,  to  say  nothing  of  the  clerks 
and  people  of  leisure,  will  read  and  reread  the  '  Penny  Journal.' " 

"  And  suppose  some  one  steals  your  title  and  plan,"  risked  Gripon. 

"  No  danger.  I  appear  tomorrow,  and  I  will  tell  you  my  programme.  Little  or 
no  politics ;  ideas  I  have  renounced ;  words,  words,  to  content  everybody  and  his 
father!  A  journal  can  be  universal  only  on  condition  of  being  like  everybody, 
without  opinions.  News,  ever,  always,  and  at  any  rate,  true  or  false.  Quid  novi? 
said  the  loungers  of  Rome.  '  What's  new?'  say  those  of  Paris.  A  journalist  is  a 
dealer  in  news!  My  news  items,  astonishing  ki  interest  and  timeliness;  when  no 
dogs  get  crushed,  I  will  order  some  crushed;  my  court  reports  perfect, — every  case 
a  celebrated  case.  The  watchword  will  be :  Sensation  carried  to  the  farthest  ex- 
tent. Occasionally  an  Epinal  picture;  the  children  like  that.  Aud  my  serial 
stories,  for  the  fair  sex !  It  will  be  the  height  of  art  ....  and  of  adultery.  The 
ground-floor  of  the  journal  will  sustain  the  entire  edifice  to  the  skies;  never  litera- 
ture, that  does  not  take;  pure  love  and  sentiment  utterly  disregarded;  passion 
carried  to  the  point  of  lunacy;  tears  in  showers,  avalanches  of  events  and  inci- 
dents, a  crime  to  every  line,  rape,  murder,  robbery,  fire,  and  everything  trembling ; 


The  Masquerade.  178 

each  instalment  ending  in  this  fashi  on :  '  With  one  hand  the  husband  grasped  his 
dagger,  with  the  other  he  seized  his  wife,  and  with  the  other  pointed  to  her  lover  on 
his  knees.'  (To  be  continued  in  our  next.)  That  is  how  I  intend  to  make  (faire) 
my  journal  and  take  in  (refaire)  the  public  1 " 

A  general  outburst  of  laughter  welcomed  this  declaration  of  principles  by  the 
great  journalist. 

"If  the  public  could  hear  you,"  exclaimed  Camille. 

"  Bah  !  if  we  knew  how  our  food  is  cooked,  we  should  never  eat ;  but  the  profes- 
sional secret  lies  there,  you  see  1  And  besides,  the  subscriber  is  so  stupid.  Though 
he  should  hear  us,  he  would  keep  his  deep-seated  faith  and  still  give  us  his  penny. 
Every  morning  he  can  see  that  we  '  puff'  on  the  fourth  page  all  that  we  attack  on 
the  first. 

"In  principle,  we  are  against  Gripon,  Hoffmann,  and  the  rest;  in  practice,  we 
receive  their  money  and  extol  their  doubtful  enterprises. 

"  In  our  leading  article  we  say :  '  Financiers  are  the  plague  of  the  time.  Here  is 
another  who  has  just  disappeared,  ruining  a  thousand  families,'  etc.,  etc.  And  in 
the  advertisements  we  certify  '  that  the  stock  of  the  Company  for  the  Manufacture 
of  Rubber  Locomotives  calculated  to  run  all  alone  on  gutta-percha  rails  is  the  best 
investment  for  capital  and  savings.' 

"  Why,  I  who  speak  to  you  wrote  an  article  yesterday  against  the  Auvergne  Gold 
Mining  Company,  which  has  not  advertised  in  my  journals,  and  today  I  advertise 
my  Sologne  Coal  Mining  Company,  which  is  no  better.  Really,  if  we  were  to 
take  our  trade  seriously,  it  would  be  neither  amusing  nor  lucrative  ....  and  the 
journal  must  be  both." 

"  Decidedly,  your  journalism  is  too  smart  for  me,"  said  Camille.  "It  is  still 
more  complicated  than  the  bank." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Louchard,  "  and  here  is  the  simple  maxim  of  the  trade :  '  Good 
faith  is  the  soul  of  journalism,  as  credit  is  the  soul  of  commerce.'  And  upon  the 
strength  of  that,  my  friends,  let  us  go  to  the  masquerade.  Our  ladies  must  be  at 
the  Opera  already,  since  they  are  not  yet  here." 

And  the  disguised  party  descended  the  stairs  of  the  newspaper  establishment 
and  got  into  Louchard's  splendid  turn-out,  which  took  them  to  the  Opera  ball. 


174  The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  m. 

THE  OPERA. 

Catholic  peoples  have  remained  more  Pagan  than  Protestant  peoples,  who,  hav- 
ing no  Lent,  have  no  Carnival.  We  Roman  Catholics  logically  keep  Shrove  Tues- 
day and  Ash  Wednesday. 

In  '48  the  muse  of  the  French  dance,  called  cancan,  had  for  an  Apollo  a  fright- 
ful fellow  pitted  like  a  chestnut  pan,  as  black  as  a  burnt  chestnut,  and  as  little  as 
Napoleon  the  Great,  whose  name  he  bore,  —  Napoleon  Musard, —  and  surname, — 
Musard  the  Great. 

Absurd  fashion  had  thus  christened  this  emperor  of  the  public  ball-room;  and 
the  Terpsichore  of  the  Haute-Courtille,  the  great  Opera,  leaped  only  to  the  riga- 
doons  of  this  minstrel. 

Everything  was  great,  even  to  the  disasters  ,  alas !  in  our  Christian  France,  after 
the  Concordat  of  Napoleon  I;  and,  in  imitation  of  the  great  emperor,  regis  ad  exem- 
pla,  we  had  the  great  minstrel,  as  well  as  the  great  tailor,  and  finally  the  great 
chahuteur  also. 

The  soul  of  the  orthodox  Carnival,  the  triple  God  of  the  tolerated,  authorized,  and 
even  subsidized  bacchanalia,  who  resembled  at  the  same  time  Bacchus,  Silenus,  and 
Momus,  laughing  like  Momus,  drinking  like  Silenus,  and  dancing  like  Bacchus,  a 
personage  no  less  great  than  Musard  himself  and  rhyming  with  him  moreover,  was 
a  dealer  in  hides,  named  Chicard,  from  which  name  we  get  the  word  chic,  unless 
chic  was  the  origin  of  Chicard.  Which  is  a  question. 

This  Chicard  was  the  favorite  of  saturnalian  Paris,  the  lord  and  master  of  the 
masquerade,  the,tyrant  of  the  Opera.  His  costume  has  remained  legendary, — 
flesh-colored  tights  with  a  fireman's  helmet  and  a  sapper's  glove!  No  less  artists 
than  Gavarni  and  Daumier  have  consecrated  his  glory  with  their  pencils. 

This  dealer  in  hides — for  our  clever  Paris  is  so  made  that  it  worships  folly — 
governed  and  charmed  his  generation,  passing  almost  to  posterity,  to  immortality, 
and,  thanks  to  the  hopeless  stupidity  of  the  idle,  becoming  a  candidate  for  the 
Pantheon. 

For  the  evening  with  which  we  are  now  concerned,  Musard,  to  draw  the  crowd 
and  swell  the  receipts,  had  promised  Chicard  to  his  patrons;  and  as  the  great  at- 
traction he  had  devised  a  sort  of  bacchic  ballet,  thus  announced  on  all  the  walls  of 
Paris: 


The  Masquerade.  175 

AT  THE  OPERA. 
MARDI-GRAS  MASQUERADE. 

Triumph  and  Death  of  Chieard. 

GREAT  ENTERTAINMENT. 

So,  at  midnight,  there  was  a  line  of  people  at  the  doors  of  the  Opera,  then  situ- 
ated in  the  Rue  Lepelletier,  where  Orsini's  bombs  were  thrown. 

The  hall  was  soon  furl;  the  lobby  and  even  the  stairs  were  overflowing  with 
masks  and  dominos.  Musard  turned  people  away,  thanks  to  Chieard,  who  shared 
the  receipts. 

It  was  a  success,  even  before  the  opening  of  the  ticket-offices,  on  the  strength  of 
the  simple  placarded  announcement. 

Beside  those  with  whom  these  gross  pleasures  were  habitual,  there  was  an  idiotic 
mass  of  curious  persons,  attracted  by  the  reputation  of  the  God  of  the  festival. 
All  political,  financial,  artistic,  and  literary  Paris,  and  the  canaille  gilded  or 
wretched,  had  agreed  to  meet  at  this  ball  announced  as  the  very  transfiguration  of 
the  great  Chieard. 

For  fine  adventures  and  witty  sayings  look  elsewhere.  The  meetings  and  con- 
versations were  what  they  usually  are  in  such  a  place,  stupid  or  treacherous,  ego- 
istic and  wanton,  sometimes  comical,  seldom  witty,  the  Jewish  spirit  of  the  stock 
exchange  dominating  every  other.  Mercury,  on  the  French  Olympus,  beating 
Bacchus,  Comus,  and  Momus,  all  the  revived  deities  of  the  Greeks  and  Remans. 
In  short,  the  servile  customs  and  bestial  reereations  which  surely  lead  to  the  inva- 
sion of  a  people. 

The  hall  was  lighted  a  giorno.  The  floor,  raised  to  a  level  with  the  stage, 
doubled  its  size;  the  orchestra  was  moved  to  the  back  of  the  theatre,  and  in  front 
a  throne  under  a  canopy  was  raised  above  a  table  laid  in  Pantagruelian  fashion 
with  Gargantuan  dishes  for  one  person. 

Dishes  as  large  as  kettles,  plates  as  big  as  platters,  knives  as  long  as  swords,  and 
forks  as  strong  as  tridents. 

Discordant  music  and  dancing  in  keeping  therewith  were  at  their  height,  when 
a  stroke  of  the  tamtam  resounded  like  a  cannon-shot. 

Then  an  heroi-comic  march  worthy  of  the  hero,  to  the  sound  of  cowboys'  horns 
playing  the  famous  air  of  La  riflaflafla,  and  to  the  cries  of  "Long  live  Chieard  I " 
was  heard,  and  the  procession  entered,  entirely  suspending  the  ball. 

This  procession  represented  the  complete  evolution  of  ancient  and  modern  bac- 
chanalia,  in  an  unconscious  picture  of  the  transformation  of  the  species,  a  natural 
history  of  human  stupidity,  the  picturesque  zoology  of  the  fashionable  biped. 

Women  of  every  reign,  age,  and  class,  mythological,  fantastic,  and  historical, 
nymphs,  naiads,  water-sprites,  nereids  and  mermaids  with  sea-scales,  sphynxes  with 
lionesses'  heads  and  hinds,  panthers  and  cocottes,  bacchantes  and  shepherdesses, 


176  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

bacchanals  and  virgins,  columbines  and  young  nuns,  lorettes  and  vivandieres,  drag- 
ging Chicard  with  garlands  and  ribbons,  Who  wore  his  traditional  helmet  on  his 
head  and  his  legendary  glove  on  his  hand,  and  sat  in  a  triumphal  car  escorted  by 
all  the  fabulous  characters  of  old  and  young  mythology. 

Bacchus  at  the  head  on  his  leopard,  Silenus  on  his  ass,  Pan  on  his  goat,  satyrs, 
fauns,  and  sylvans,  with  their  thyrses,  and  tritons  with  their  -shells,  preceding  the 
extravagant  fancies  of  Gavarni,  Daumier,  Granville,  and  Cham,  lumpers,  tills, 
troubadours,  romantic  knights,  light  opera  Tyroleans,  Nanterre  firemen,  Lonju- 
meau  postilions,  Turks  de  la  Courtille,  old-fashioned  marquises  and  shepherds, 
powdered  chamberlains,  Directory  swells,  clowns  and  merry-andrews,  Harlequins 
and  Macaires,  peers  of  France  in  spectacles,  academicians  in  wigs,  kings  with  old 
umbrellas  over  their  pear  heads,  queens  in  old-fashioned  carriages,  emperors  with 
false  noses,  popes  on  crutches,  porle  colons,  scullions,  cooks,  vidangeurs,  all  the  gro- 
tesque figures  of  the  past  added  to  the  caricatures  and  parodies  of  the  present. 

Chicard  mounted  and  sat  on  the  throne  above  the  table ;  chamberlains,  carrying 
the  key  at  the  lower  part  of  their  backs,  decorated  him  with  kitchen  utensils; 
pork-butchers  crowned  him  with  blood-pudding;  a  knight  of  the  Holy  Ghost  con- 
secrated him  with  oil  and  vinegar,  proclaiming  him,  to  the  sound  of  horns,  Chicard 
I,  king  of  the  land  flowing  with  milk  and  honey,  emperor  of  the  Carnival,  and  pope 
of  Mardi-Gras,  amid  cries,  a  thousand  times  repeated,  of  "Long  live  Chicard  and 
his  august  family  1 " 

Then  cooks  served  him  a  monster  pancake  in  a  gigantic  pan ;  butlers  a  bottle  of 
champagne  as  big  as  a  cask,  with  a  glass  as  large  as  a  pail,  and  a  cigar  of  monu- 
mental length ;  pantlers  a  colossal  loaf,  and  carvers  a  turkey  stuffed  with  truffles 
and  as  big  as  a  fat  ox. 

During  this  Rabelaisian  repast  a  general  gallop  filed  past  His  Majesty,  composed 
of  couples  authentic  and  fantastic,  loves  famous  in  all  poesies  and  all  centuries, 
showing  human  evolution,  savage,  barbarous,  and  civilized,  beginning  with  the 
gods,  db  Jove,  Jupiter  and  Juno,  Venus  and  Mars,  Hercules  and  Omphale,  Cupid 
and  Psyche,  Pyramus  and  Thisbe,  Hero  and  Leander,  Daphnis  and  Chloe,  Diogenes 
aud  Lais,  Horace  and  Lydia,  Don  Quixote  and  Dulcinea,  Heloise  and  Abelard, 
Laura  aad  Patrarch,  Beatrice  aud  Dante,  Charles  VII  and  Agnes,  Ferrouniere  and 
Francis  I,  Gabrielle  and  Henri  IV,  Louis  XIV  and  Lavalliere,  Louis  XV  and  Du- 
barry,  Barras  and  Mme.  Angot,  not  to  leave  out  Adam  and  Eve,  dressed  in  modern 
clothing,  disguised  in  burlesque  fashion,  women  appearing  as  men  and  men  as 
women. 

A  gallop  of  death,  passing  in  chronological  order,  first  the  prehistoric  world, 
then  the  Grseco-Roman,  Middle  Ages,  and  Renaissance,  royal,  imperial,  and  re- 
publican, all  shadows  saluting  their  Caesar  in  order  to  die  before  him. 

After  the  last  salutation  of  the  last  couple,  Chicard,  having  drank  his  last  glass 
of  champagne,  felt  sick. 


The  Masquerade.  177 

Then  Molifere's  notary,  Loyal,  appeared  with  a  will  which  he  presented  for  his 
signature. 

Chicard  became  perceptibly  pale  and  white.  Toinette  advanced  and  placed  a 
nightcap  on  his  head.  The  physicians  of  Argau  arrived,  surrounded  him,  felt  hia 
pulse,  looked  at  his  tongue,  gave  their  opinions,  and,  upon  a  signal  from  Doctor 
Purgon,  the  Diafoiruses  of  Pourceaugnac  ran  up  with  syringes  as  big  as  telescopes. 

Chicard,  frightened,  leaped  down  from  his  throne  and  ran  away,  pursued  by  the 
dancers. 

The  pursuit  was  conducted  to  the  sound  of  the  horns,  which  played  a  lugubrious 
'parody  of  the  La  rifla. 

At  last  Chicard,  who  had  almost  escaped  into  the  wings,  was  stopped  short  by  a 
colossal  rag-picker  rising  from  the  prompter's  box  before  him,  with  hair  and  beard 
cut  according  to  the  prevailing  fashion,  a  hook  as  big  as  a  scythe  and  a  basket  the 
size  of  a  coffin,  in  face  of  Lent,  covered  with  ashes  and  followed  by  undertakers. 

"Haiti"  he  cried.  "I  am  Ash  Wednesday,  the  rag-picker  of  Mardi-Gras  .... 
into  the  basket ! " 

And  the  rag-picker  of  Paris  took  Chicard  and  tossed  him  into  the  basket,  the 
tamtam  sounding  the  knell  of  Sedan  for  this  society  as  decrepit  as  its  representa- 
tive, Chicard. 

In  the  corner  of  the  "lions'"  box,  called  the  "infernal  box,"  where  her  com- 
panions had  left  her,  Marie,  alone,  wearing  the  wolf-mask  which  Mazagran  had 
lent  her,  stood  dazzled,  stunned,  bewildered  at  all  that  she  had  seen  and  heard. 

She  said  to  herself  that  surely  her  mother  would  not  have  permitted  this  plea- 
sure party,  and  that  Father  Jean  would  not  like  it. 

Her  conscience  was  not  easy.  She  felt,  if  not  remorse,  at  least  regret;  she  real- 
ized that  her  conduct  was  not  commendable. 

"Well,  Marie,  isn't  it  beautiful?  What  do  you  think  of  it?"  cried  Mazagran, 
coining  back  to  the  box  and  slapping  her  on  the  shoulder. 

"I  am  afraid,"  answered  Marie;  "and  if  you  wish  to  oblige  me,  you  will  lend 
me  a  dollar  to  take  a  carriage  and  gp  home." 

"Go  home!  What  for?  Not  at  all.  And  the  supper!  We  will  take  you 
home  afterwards.  That's  an  idea, — to  come  to  the  Opera  without  a  supper!  Im- 
possible, my  dear!  Our  gentlemen  have  gone  to  order  it,  and,  when  wine  is 
drawn,  it  must  be  drank." 

And  as  the  others  also  returned  to  the  box,  she  cried  out: 

"Say,  tell  the  lambs;  this  ewe,  Marie,  is  afraid,  and  the  shepherds  are  no  longer 
here  to  reassure  her.  All  have  gone  to  the  Maison  d'Or  ahead  of  us?  Let  us  fol- 
low them.  We  must  not  make  them  wait,  especially  as  they  would  not  wait.  .  .  . 
I  know  them.  Quick  time,  forward,  march  1 " 

And  they  dragged  off  Marie  Didier,  in  spite  of  herself,  human  after  all,  unable 
to  resist  their  high  spirits  or  go  back  to  her  garret,  and  consenting  to  follow  them 
to  supper.  A  daughter  of  Eve,  she  succumbed  to  temptation. 


178  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  MAISON-DOR^E. 

The  attractive  programme  so  well  set  forth  by  Mazagran  was  realized. 

From  the  Opera  they  had  gone  to  the  Maison-Doree,  men  and  women  in  sepa- 
rate groups,  lest  the  latter  might  compromise  the  former.  Prudence  and  respect- 
ability covering  up  license  and  corruption.  To  save  appearances  is  to  act  like  a 
good  bourgeois. 

So  we  find  these  gentlemen  again  awaiting  these  ladies  in  a  private  dining-room 
of  the  Maison-Dore*e,  facing  the  boulevard.  Chandeliers,  gilt  decorations,  a  carpet, 
carved  chairs,  a  velvet  divan  to  sit  or  lie  upon,  a  table  supplied  with  fruits  and 
flowers  for  show,  silver-ware  and  choice  dishes,  the  entire  scale  of  glasses  large  and 
small,  for  wines  in  decanters  and  in  bottles,  warming  in  their  baskets  or  freezing 
in  ice,  in  short,  all  the  usual  luxury  and  commonplace  elegance  of  a  great  fashion- 
able restaurant. 

Camille  Berville,  in  a  black  coat,  with  a  camelia  in  his  buttonhole,  a  new  flower 
then,  was  reading  a  newspaper  before  the  gaily  flaming  wood  fire. 

Gripon  had  just  taken  his  place  at  a  little  table,  while  Louchard  and  Loiseau 
were  in  their  seats.  Frinlair,  very  nervous  and  over-excited,  was  standing,  stealth- 
ily eyeing  Camille  and  in  anything  but  a  good  humor. 

"Waiter,  the  bill  of  fare,"  said  the  notary,  breaking  the  silence. 

"  Waiter,  a  pack  of  cards,"  demanded  the  broker. 

"  Waiter,  some  paper,"  requested  the  journalist,  in  his  turn. 

"  Waiter,  some  cigars,"  added  Frinlair. 

"There,  gentlemen,  there,"  said  the  waiter,  serving  them  promptly,  with  a  haste 
proportioned  to  the  fee. 

"  Absinthe  first,"  said  Loiseau. 

Louchard  approved. 

"  That's  right,  make  out  the  supper  order,  and  give  me  the  rest  of  the  paper  for 
my  journal." 

"Which  one?"  asked  Loiseau. 

"For  both  the  'Democracy '  and  the  'Appeal  to  the  People.'  Let  us  go  to  work. 
Ah  I  if  our  ladies  of  the  Musard  ball  were  here,  such  collaborators  would  furnish 
me  ideas." 


The  Masquerade.  179 

Loiseau  consulted  the  bill  of  fare. 

"On  the  Charter  \C~harte\1"  said  he  to  Louchard. 

"  No,  that's  played  out  ...  on  the  supper  order  [carte"]." 

Gripon,  with  his  cards  in  his  hand,  made  a  signal  to  Frinlair. 

"  In  the  meantime,  let  us  have  a  game  of  e'cartJ." 

But  the  diplomat  returned  to  his  ruling  passion. 

"I  should  prefer  a  game  of  horse,  ha,  ha!  It  is  night  and  freezing;  I  will  bet 
five  hundred  dollars  that  I  can  go  now  from  Paris  to  Saint-Cloud  backwards  in  an 
hour  and  a  half.  Monsieur  Camille,  will  you  bet?" 

"  No,"  answered  Camille,  wearily. 

Gripon  tried  him,  in  his  turn. 

"Do  you  play,  Camille?" 

"No,"  repeated  the  latter. 

"Camille,  what  wine  will  you  have?"  asked  Loiseau. 

"  I  am  not  thirsty." 

"What  soup?" 

"  I  am  not  hungry." 

"Camille,  my  good  fellow,"  said  the  facetious  notary,  "you  are  turning  into  an 
oyster." 

And  he  wrote : 

"  Ten  dozen  1 " 

Then,  after  enjoying  his  joke,  he  continued : 

"  We  shall  be  ten,  in  spite  of  the  old  rule :  '  Neither  less  than  the  Graces,  nor 
more  than  the  Muses.'  Is  that  what  vexes  you?  But  you  are  not  a  classicist. 
What  ails  you,  then?" 

"Ennui." 

Louchard  had  just  finished  his  writing.    He  heard  Camille's  reply. 

"Nousense,  crank,"  he  exclaimed.  "  You  are  troubled  .with  ennui.  .  .  .  Listen 
to  this  wind-up.  It  is  homoeopathic." 

And  he  read : 

"The  'Appeal  to  the  People':  'The  Republic  agitates  in  vain  among  the  dregs 
of  Paris  after  having  expelled  the  best  of  kings.  France  will  not  submit  to  the 
fanatics  of  the  bratocracy.  She  is  already  preparing  to  drive  them  back  into  the 
dens  from  which  they  should  never  have  emerged.  The  People,  the  real  People 
and  not  the  mob,  trust  in  the  future  of  the  Napoleons,  who  are  the  logical  succes- 
sors of  the  excellent,  eminent,  but  too  indulgent  Louis  Philippe.  The  Pretender 
is  sure  of  the  love  of  the  French.  Thanks  to  him,  anarchy  will  not  prevail,  and 
France  will  follow  her  progress  in  order  and  liberty  under  the  sovereign  of  her 
choice.' " 

"I  will  be  a  bull  in  stocks,"  exclaimed  Gripon,  decidedly. 

"Wait,"  interrupted  Louchard.     "Hear  this." 


180  The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 

He  took  up  another  sheet  and  read : 

" The  ' Social  Democracy ' :  'At  last  the  people  can  celebrate  their  deliverance. 
Citizens  have  a  right  to  wear  at  the  masquerade  the  tinsel  of  kings,  priests,  and 
masters,  the  entire  cast-off  clothing  of  a  past  never  to  return ;  for  the  Republic  is 
definitively  established,  and  more  and  more  tends  to  become  democratic  and  social. 
What  we  have  predicted  is  realized.  Before  February  we  danced  upon  a  smoking 
volcano.  Its  lava  has  submerged,  in  a  flood  of  mud  and  blood,  frivolous  sheets, 
lascivious  priests,  murderous  dukes,  and  thieving  ministers.  And  it  is  justice: 
royalty,  as  unreasoning  as  unfeeling,  refused  reform  and  offered  the  guillotine  to 
the  people  who  asked  for  bread  and  the  ballot.  It  was  a  time  to  say  as  in  1830 : 
Unhappy  king,  unhappy  France  1  At  last  this  regime  is  ended  ....  and  we  shall 
never  see  it  more  except  at  the  carnival.' " 

"  I  will  be  a  bear,"  said  Gripon,  shaken. 

"The  Boulevard  will  talk  of  these  thunders,"  concluded  Louchard. 

"Bah!  less  than  of  the  masquerade,"  said  Canaille,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 

"Waiter,"  called  Louchard,  vexed.  "  Take  these  to  the  printing-office  .  .  .  and 
don't  mix  them  up." 

"  What  a  marmalade  I "  cried  Loiseau. 

And  he  wrote  the  word  on  his  supper  order,  while  his  friends  smiled  at  his 
sallies. 

"  How  wit  becomes  notaries ! "  said  Camille,  decidedly  in  an  ill  humor. 

"Pshaw!"  said  Loiseau,  "there  is  a  time  for  everything.  A  notary  is  a  Janus 
....  accustomed  to  play  double.  Now  it  is  Jean  who  laughs  and  now  it  is  Jean 
who  weeps.  He  has  to  change  his  humor  according  to  the  acts.  Thus  this 
morning  I  drew  up  a  dying  man's  will  at  his  bedside.  Until  noon  I  was  sepul- 
chral. Later  I  drew  up  a  marriage  contract,  and  I  again  became  gay.  Now  my 
barometer  indicates  fair  weather." 

But  seeing  that  his  remarks  were  not  very  successful,  he  said,  pointing  to  Ca- 
mille and  addressing  Frinlair: 

"I  know  no  man  who  takes  pleasure  more  sadly  than  Camille." 

"Oh!"  said  Frinlair  with  secret  malice,  "on  the  eve  of  marriage  there  is  good 
reason  for  that.  You  know  something  about  it,  you  husbands." 

"Oh!  a  little,"  observed  Louchard,  "as  a  matter  of  form,  as  Bridoison  said." 

"Or  of  horns,"  added  Gripon.     "I  never  take  my  wife  out  except  when  I  move." 

"And  I,"  said  Loiseau,  "move  when  my  wife  goes  out.  .  .  But  no  matter,"  he 
continued,  coming  back  to  Camille,  to  make  him  the  subject  of  another  witticism, 
"I  have  always  seen  our  friend  .  .  .  croute  aux  champignons." 

And  he  wrote  down  this  dish  also  amid  laughter. 

"What  do  you  expect?"  said  Camille;  "all  your  balls  bore  me;  such  things 
amuse  you,  but  they  make  me  as  sober  as  this  melon." 

And  he  jestingly  designated  the  object  that  lay  in  the  direction  of  the  notary. 


The  Masquerade.  181 

'•Oh!  indeed,"  exclaimed  Loiseau,  with  his  notary's  merciless  wit,  "here  is  Wer- 
ther,  dreaming  of  a  Charlotte  .  .  .  russe." 

He  added  this  item  to  the  menu. 

"  Well,"  said  Louchard,  "  we  have  puns  at  least.     We  might  eat  them." 

"  And  we  will  eat  them,"  said  Loiseau,  as  gay  as  if  he  were  drawing  up  a  mar- 
riage contract. 

Camille  continued  to  dream  aloud,  talking  to  himself  as  well  as  to  his  friends. 

"Yes,  Opera  balls,  society  balls,  death  dances,  insipid  or  lugubrious  farces,  all 
of  them  bazaars  of  women  and  men  for  sale,  where  virtuous  girls  go  to  seek  a  hus- 
band whom  they  pay  and  others  a  lover  who  pays  them.  It  is  as  gay  as  a  fair." 

"So  be  it,"  retorted  Loiseau,  "but  the  supper!  Come,  Puritan,  sit  down  at  the 
table,  and  swallow  your  wisdom.  A  host  may  be  moral  and  a  victim  of  ennui — 
all  disgusts  are  natural, — but  he  must  be  entertaining." 

"Bah!"  exclaimed  Camille,  "I  am  disgusted  with  everything,  even  with  your 
witticisms." 

He  rose  and,  throwing  his  cigar  into  the  fire,  said: 

"  Fortunately  I  am  going  to  marry.     It  is  a  way  of  committing  suicide." 

"Why,  he  is  serious,  upon  my  word!  he  is  going  to  die,"  chuckled  Loiseau. 
"  Waiter,  the  soup  I " 

Camille  went  to  sit  down  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  sober  and  demoralized. 

Gripon,  who  had  succeeded  in  inducing  Frinlair  to  play  with  him,  threw  down 
his  last  card,  utterly  routing  his  adversary  (Jews  always  win,  even  against  diplo- 
mats), and  cried,  enchanted : 

"Now  to  the  supper-table!     That  will  bring  the  beauties." 

Louchard  winked  his  bleared  eye. 

"  Captain  Mazagran,"  said  he,  becoming  aroused  in  advance,  "  has  recruited  a 
party  of  grisettes  for  our  entertainment.  Diplomats,  financiers,  notaries,  journal- 
ists, here  we  are  students  again.  Nobility,  bourgeoisie,  and  plebeians,  national 
unity.  .  .  .  What  a  leveller  is  love  1 " 

Camille  shook  his  head. 

"Love!" 

"  Woman  is  only  for  business  or  pleasure,"  declared  Gripon.  "  What  do  we  ask 
of  her?  Money  or  ...  her  bed.  Half  of  one  ...  or  all  the  other." 

"  And  it  is  enough  for  what  heart  is  left  us,"  said  Camille  again. 

The  young  Berville  had  reached  the  last  stage  of  despair.  He  wished  to  believe 
and  could  not.  To  such  a  point  had  the  liberality  of  his  strange  guardian  carried 
him. 

Frinlair,  who  seemed  to  be  seeking  an  opportunity  for  a  quarrel  with  his  old 
friend,  could  not  repress  his  impatience. 

"Come,  come,  Monsieur  Camille,"  said  he  suddenly,  in  his  language  of  a  gentle- 
man of  the  stables,  "  change  your  black  horse  for  a  white  one,  or  we  drop  you." 


182  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

Louchard  intervened  and,  addressing  Berville,  said  to  him  in  a  tone  of  gentle 
reproach : 

"How  can  you  be  so  gloomy,  you,  the  darling  of  the  ladies  and  of  the  bank, 
with  everything  on  your  side,  youth  and  wealth?  ....  Yours  the  key  of  hearts, 
you  the  pink  of  dandies  [fleur  despois,  literally  flower  of  peas]?" 

"Stay,  I  forgot  the  vegetables,"  cried  Loiseau. 

And  he  began  to  write  again,  while  the  waiter  served  the  soup. 

Camille  allowed  the  disgust  that  filled  his  heart  to  overflow. 

"Well,  yes,''  said  he,  "it  is  true.  I  have  everything,  and  I  have  nothing 

because  I  have  done  nothing  to  have  everything.  I  have  lived  what  you  call  life, 
richly  and  vainly,  thanks  to  my  guardian,  who  has  thrown  the  reins  upon  my  neck 
and  made  me  master  of  my  fate  and  fortune.  I  have  run,  like  a  madman,  as  you 
all  have,  after  happiness,  after  love,  and  I  have  been  deceived,  as  you  have  been.  I 
have  mistaken  pleasure  for  happiness,  loves  for  love,  as  my  future  father-in-law, 
the  baron,  mistakes  honors  for  honor.  Quantity  is  not  quality,  friends;  and  in 
these  matters  I  prefer  the  singular  to  the  plural.  I  would  give  all  women  for  a 
woman.  The  beauties,  as  you  call  them,  wines,  cards,  horses,  the  possible  and  the 
impossible,  I  have  used  them  all,  all,  even  to  the  duel.  I  have  fought  with  friends 

and  enemies,  at  random,  sometimes  even  with  reason I  have  drained  the 

glass  to  the  bottom,  and  found  at  last  only  bitterness  and  dregs,  ennui  and  disgust, 
and  even — laugh  if  you  will — remorse.  Intoxication  has  left  its  after-taste,  but 
without  killing  desire  ".  .  . 

Forgetting  the  sceptical  society  in  which  he  found  himself,  carried  away  by  the 
impulse  of  his  frank  and  kindly  nature,  vitiated  but  not  vicious,  he  smote  his 
breast,  saying  amid  the  sneers  and  mocking  exclamations : 

"Surfeited  as  I  am,  I  still  feel  here,  in  my  heart,  a  void,  a  need  like  that  of  Tan- 
talus. Yes,  yes,  I  am  hungry,  I  am  thirsty  still  for  that  love,  for  that  happiness, 
the  shows  of  which  have  not  satisfied  me." 

"  What  an  appetite  1 "  exclaimed  Loiseau ;  "  waiter,  two  roasts  for  one ! " 

When  the  laughter  had  subsided,  Louchard  resumed  his  bantering  remonstrances. 

"How  much  will  you  charge  for  this  speech  for  my  journals  V  "  he  asked.  "  These 
fine  things  are  only  to  be  written,  at  most,  my  dear;  they  are  not  to  be  spoken, 
especially  here  and  today.  .  .  .  Pure  love  in  the  Maison-Doree,  in  the  restaurant 
and  on  Mardi-Gras!  You  sing  out  of  tunel  Your  heart  empty?  Nonsense. 
Your  stomach?  Ah  I  very  well.  Thirsty  for  love,  hungry  for  happiness !  What 
a  poet!  Come  down  quickly  to  prose.  Doctor  Ve'ron's  soup  and  beef,  —  those 
will  relieve  you." 

Camille  shook  his  head. 

"No,  I  am  a  dead  man,  I  tell  you,"  he  continued,  slowly.  "Oh,  of  course  I  can 
eat  and  drink  and  laugh  with  you  at  our  stupidities.  But  it  is  galvanism ;  death 
is  in  my  heart.  Life,  the  only  real  life,  is  love,  and  of  that  there  is  no  more  for 


The  Masquerade.  183 

such  perverse  persons  as  ourselves.  That  is  our  punishment  and  its  revenge. 
Like  Midas,  we  change  everything  into  gold.  We  can  no  longer  find  a  woman  to 
give  us  happiness  instead  of  selling  it  to  us.  At  any  rate,  not  in  the  ball-room 
shall  I  meet  such  a  woman,  and  that  is  why  the  ball  makes  me  sad." 

Louchard  began  to  laugh. 

"Midas,  Tantalus,  fabulous  .  .  .  these  things  are  out  of  date,  Camille;  be  a  lit- 
tle positive.  Do  as  I  do.  When  I  enter  the  ball-room,  I  leave  my  heart  in  the 
cloak-room  with  my  cane  or  my  umbrella  and  take  them  again  as  I  go  out." 

"As  for  me,"  confessed  Gripon,  pointing  to  his  purse  on  the  card-table,  "there 
is  my  heart.  And  I  never  open  it  except  knowingly." 

"  And  as  for  me,"  said  Loiseau  in  turn,  "  I  put  my  heart  in  my  glass.  Old  wines 
before  young  girls.  Waiter,  Madeira  1 " 

"One  does  not  prevent  the  other,"  said  Frinlair,  with  a  smile  that  resembled  a 
grimace,  "any  more  than  pure  love  prevents  a  big  dowry,  eh,  Monsieur  Berville?" 

And  with  design,  laying  emphasis  on  each  of  his  words,  he  said  to  Camille : 

"And  you,  Monsieur  philosopher,  do  you  not  love  the  sole  heiress  of  the  great 
banker  baron,  your  noble  and  rich  betrothed,  Mile.  Claire  Hoffmann?" 

"I  marry  her,"  answered  Camille,  simply. 

"Ha,  ha!  he  is  real  as  well  as  ideal." 

Camille  closed  Frinlair's  mouth  with  a  word : 

"It  is  doubtless  a  fine  match  for  those  who,  like  you,  Count  Frinlair,  want 
grandeurs  and  big  dowrys,  a  massive  million  and  hopes.  I  conceive,  though  not 
sharing  it,  the  perfect  love  with  which  this  millionaire  goddess,  they  say,  inspires 
you.  Oh  I  don't  be  jealous,"  he  exclaimed,  repressing  a  gesture  made  by  Claire's 
lover,  "with  me  it  is  as  the  broker  Gripon  says,  a  matter  .of  business  and  without 
pleasure  ...  an  end,  not  justifying,  but  justified  by  my  means.  Yes,  it  is  to  end 
that  I  marry;  after  Mardi-Gras,  Ashes.  Henceforth  I  shall  live  solely  for  money 
....  a  strong-box,  the  husband  of  a  purse.  I  marry  a  capital.  I  become  Hoff- 
mann &  Company;  I  shall  be  the  company,  with  a  beliy.  I  shall  be,  like  these 
golden  louis,  a  head  without  a  heart,  double-chinned,  decorated,  a  deputy,  and  sat- 
isfied .  .  .  with  a  wife  scarcely  my  own,  children  altogether  hers,  and  money  that 
is  everybody's.  .  .  .  Guizot  said :  '  Let  us  get  rich.'  Brothers,  it  is  necessary  to 
die !  Let  Bre*da  put  on  mourning  1  Let  the  lions  and  rats  of  the  infernal  box 
wear  crape  1  Here  lies  the  son  of  the  late  banker  Berville,  a  young  prodigal,  who 
died  or  rather  was  buried  prematurely ;  a  victim  of  marriage,  amounting  to  no 
more  than  the  rest,  having  never  done  any  good  or  earned  his  own  living,  regretted 
by  nobody  and  regretting  nothing.  .  .  .  Come,  my  groomsmen,  dear  undertakers, 
the  prayer  of  the  dead  and  wine  by  way  of  lustral  water.  Bury  me,  marry  me,  eat 
me  in  the  elements  of  this  stuffed  turkey  1  Drink  me,  this  iced  champagne  is  my 
blood.  ...  It  is  the  devil's  communion,  my  last  supper  as  a  bachelor.  Let  us 
drink  to  my  death  t  I  die  zero  to  rise  again  a  million ! " 


184  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

All  save  Frinlair  applauded  this  speech,  and,  touching  glasses,  cried  in  chorus : 

"  To  his  resurrection  1     To  the  health  and  multiplication  of  the  million  1 " 

Just  then  the  folding-doors  opened,  and  a  lackey,  broken  to  his  trade,  announced 
in  a  quasi-familiar  voice : 

"  Those  ladies,  gentlemen  1 " 

All,  rising,  added  with  one  accord : 

"  Ah  1    Mazagran  &  Co.,  at  last ! " 

The  young  woman  appeared  with  her  companions,  dragging,  almost  by  main 
force,  Marie  blushing  behind  her  black  velvet  wolf's  mask. 

"At  the  table  already,  and  at  the  Madeira  1"  exclaimed  Mazagran,  indignantly  ; 
"without  waiting  for  us.  That's  a  fine  way  to  do.  Come  in!  And  quickly  .  .  . 
hurry  to  your  seat,"  she  continued,  pushing  Marie  before  her.  "The  monsters 
have  already  swallowed  the  soup.  I  protest.  Let  us  catch  up  with  them  before 
the  champagne." 

She  noticed  Gripon's  money  on  the  card-table,  and,  throwing  a  louis  out  the 
window,  said: 

"  Louis?    For  whom?    Anything  that  falls  into  the  ditch  is.  .  .  for  the  soldier." 

"Why,  what  are  you  about?"  exclaimed  the  broker,  non-plussed  by  this  pro- 
cedure and  touched  in  his  Jewish  nature.  . 

"  I  am  amusing  myself,"  said  Mazagran,  indifferently.    "Would  you  rather  have 
me  pocket  it?" 
•     Gripon  quickly  snatched  up  the  stakes. 

"  That  will  teach  me  to  leave  my  winnings  lying  about  another  time,"  said  he, 
with  a  smile  as  yellow  as  the  lost  louis. 

And,  an  Israelite  to  the  core,  he  could  not  help  saying: 

"You  know,  you  will  return  it  to  me.  Gambling  money  is  sacred.  It  is  a  debt 
of  honor,  and  whoso  pays  his  debts  ".  .  .  . 

"Impoverishes  himself,"  said  Mazagran,  decidedly. 

"Indeed,  you  are  right,"  said  Gripon,  amazed. 

But,  returning  to  his  louis,  he  insisted : 

"  You  shall  pay  me.    Money  or  nature  ".  .  . 

Mazagran  burst  out  into  a  frank  peal  of  laughter,  singing  with  all  her  voice : 

Ah  1  que  e'est  beau  la  nature, 
Les  prts,  les  bois,  la  verdure.  .  .  . 

Then,  with  an  exclamation  and  like  a  flash,  she  said : 

"  In  fact,  I  take  you  at  your  word ;  that  makes  you  still  owe  me  four  louis. 
Agreed." 

"No,  I  decidedly  prefer  to  lose  but  twenty  francs,"  concluded  Gripon. 

"  You  are  not  gallant,"  said  Mazagran.  "  But  I  don't  care,  for  between  ourselves 
you  are  a  good  enough  remedy  for  love.  .  ,  ,  Come  1  let  each  choose  her  com- 
panion. For  my  part,  I  take  Frinlair." 


The  Masquerade.  185 

And  amid  laughter  they  placed  themselves  :  Marie  apart,  at  the  soberest  end  of 
the  table ;  Henri  standing  against  the  mantle-shelf. 

"  I  am  starving,"  confessed  Trompette. 

"  I  am  dying  of  thirst,"  said  Louisa. 

"  And  I  am  both,"  exclaimed  Pauline. 

"  And  I  then ! "  cried  Mazagran,  glancing  in  the  direction  of  her  old  admirer, 
Camille.  "I  have  the  appetite  of  a  widow,  of  the  solitary  tape-worm  1" 

"Yes,"  said  Louchard,  "eat  and  drink,  my  dear.  You  have  reason  to  drown 
your  sorrow.  Decidedly  this  rascal  Camille  de«eives  you;  worse  than  that,  he 
abandons  you." 

"  He  would  have  deceived  me  much  more  if  he  had  not  abandoned  me,"  said  she, 
carelessly.  "  He  passes  to  the  position  of  a  husband,  he  dies.  I  am  a  widow,  and 
consequently  free.  After  my  mourning,  in  a  night  I  tie  myself  up  for  a  lease  of 
three,  six,  nine,  at  the  will  and  pleasure  of  the  lessee,  the  last  and  highest  bidder." 

And,  addressing  the  journalist,  she  added : 

"With  you,  if  you  like.  .  .  .    Pass  me  the  pickles." 

Louchard  held  out  the  plate  and  declined  the  offer. 

"  Three,  six,  nine,"  objected  Pauline ;  "  that's  a  little  long,  my  dear." 

"  Oh  1  it  is  dissoluble,"  observed  Louisa. 

"  And  without  expense,"  said  Trompette. 

"  Hang  yourself,  notary,"  exclaimed  Gripon.  "  They  are  stronger  than  you  at 
your  own  game." 

"To  be  sure,  what  notaries  these  merrymakers  are!  "  approved  Loiseau. 

"  And  what  merrymakers  are  these  notaries  1 "  said  Mazagran,  sending  back  the 
ball  on  the  bound. 

"  Too  much  wit  1 "  said  Gripon.     "We  shall  die  young." 

"Ohl  if  that's  all,"  retorted  Mazagran,  "you  will  live  to  be  as  old  as  Abraham, 
your  father." 

" He  threatened  indeed,"  said  Gripon,  "to  become  the  Eternal  Father.  At  last 
he  is  dead.  God  keep  his  soul,  as  the  earth  keeps  his  dustl " 

"  And  you  the  inheritance ! "  concluded  Louchard. 

The  feast  continued  in  this  strain.  The  wine  flowed  in  torrents.  The  gayety 
became  inebriety.  Marie,  all  trembling,  tried  to  conceal  it  as  much  as  possible, 
while  Camille,  still  aloof  with  folded  arms,  looked  at  her  with  a  distracted  air. 

"Say  there,  the  late  Camille,"  cried  Mazagran,  suddenly.  "Come  and  pour  us 
something  to  drink.  Because  you  are  dead,  my  dear,  is  no  reason  for  letting 
others  die  of  thirst.  Egoist,  away  with  you ! " 

She  rose  and  passed  near  Camille,  who  did  not  answer. 

"  What  a  catafalque ! "  exclaimed  Mazagran,  avenging  her  abandonment  by 
lashing  him  with  her  tongue. 

And,  going  toward  Marie,  she  inquired  of  her: 


186  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"What  do  you  say  to  this  supper,  little  one?" 

Marie  answered  in  a  low  voice : 

"  Hush,  keep  still.  Oh  1  h«w  foolish  I  have  been  I  I  am  daaed,  stunned 

do  not  question  me." 

"Who  is  this  unknown  beauty?"  said  Gripon,  interested. 

"  How  do  you  know  she  is  a  beauty  ?  "  asked  Loiseau. 

Frinlair  took  up  this  doubt : 

"  I'll  bet  a  hundred  dollars  she  is  1 " 

"I'll  bet  she  isn't,"  said  the  notary. 

Gripon,  Louchard,  and  Loiseau,  exchanging  their  impressions,  looked  at  .poor 
Marie,  who  seemed  to  want  to  disappear  through  the  floor. 

"She  doesn't  show  herself." 

"She  doesn't  eat." 

"She  doesn't  drink." 

Frinlair  started  toward  her. 

"Are  you  made  of  marble  or  of  wax?"  said  he,  teasingly,  "an  object  of  art  to 
put  in  a  museum  or  in  a  shrine?  a  Venus  or  a  Virgin,  behind  your  wolf's  mask? 
timid  or  coquettish?  Come,  pose  less  as  a  master-piece,  or  we  shall  be  harder  to 
please.  If  it  is  a  surprise  that  you  have  in  store  for  our  dessert,  give  us  less  cause 
to  pine.  Allow  us  at  least  to  see,  if  not  to  touch.  I  have  bet  on  you,  make  me  a 
winner.  You  will  not  lose  by  it.  Reserve  is  a  good  thing,  bat  not  too  much  of  it." 

Camille  could  not  restrain  a  movement  of  pity. 

"This  young  girl  seems  to  me  like  a  saint  in  the  circus,"  he  exclaimed,  looking 
at  her  with  his  soft  and  sympathetic  eye;  "timid  because  she  is  among  beasts; 
sad  because  she  is  among  madmen ;  masked  because  she  sees  us  unmasked,  aping 
the  vices  if  not  the  graces  of  our  masters,  with  our  appearances  of  gentleman 
Jourdains,  harlequin  diplomats,  clown  journalists,  merry-andrew  notaries,  and 
Macaire  courtiers." 

With  a  circular  gesture  he  had  passed  in  review  the  Count  de  Frinlair,  Lou- 
chard,  Loiseau,  and  Gripon,  all  displeased  with  his  sally. 

"In  short,"  he  added,  "because  she  is  afraid  of  us." 

"Oh!  we  will  break  her  in,"  said  Frinlair,  drawing  nearer  to  Marie.  "When 
one  has  tamed  Cabriole,  a  restive  animal  does  notifrighten  him.  Besides,  for  tam- 
ing purposes  the  Maison-Doree  is  as  good  as  a  ridiug-school." 

And  addressing  Marie,  who  was  still  masked,  he  said: 

"  Come,  no  trickery,  you  are  to  be  weighed.  Show  us  your  foot,  your  neck,  your 
head." 

With  a  quick  movement  he  snatched  off  her  mask. 

"Sight  costs  nothing,"  said  he.    "Superb  1    Ha,  ha  I    I  have  won." 

Unanimous  applause  welcomed  this  last  word. 

"  My  God !  where  am  I  ?  "  murmured  Marie,  in  anguish,  hiding  her  face  in  her 
hands. 


The  Masquerade*  187 

"  Poor  girl  I "  Camille  could  not  help  saying. 

But  Mazagran  reminded  him  of  his  marriage. 

"  Ah  1  Camille,  you  are  defunct !  " 

Frinlair  continued  his  ecstasy  over  his  discovery. 

"  What  a  pupil !  First  prize  1  A  gold  medal  to  Mazagran.  Pure  blood,  upon 
my  word !  Beautiful,  fine,  as  fresh  as  Suava,  a  real  thoroughbred  filly.  .  .  Notary, 
my  hundred  dollars." 

And  Frinlair  held  out  his  hand  to  Loiseau,  who  caviled  a  little  about  tastes  and 

colors.  All  tastes  are  in  nature ;  the  best  is  your  own,  etc but,  pressed  by 

all,  he  paid  Frinlair. 

Camille  could  no  longer  contain  himself. 

"  Enough,  enough,  Monsieur  Count,"  he  cried,  indignantly.  "  We  are  not  in  a 
stable,  but  you  behave  here  like  a  jockey." 

"  And  you  perhaps  like  a  knight,"  said  Friulair,  provokingly. 

And  approaching  Marie,  who  sat  as  if  nailed,  he  took  her  by  the  arm  and  said : 

"  A  kiss  for  my  hundred  dollars." 

Marie,  through  horror  and  instinct,  recoiled  from  Friulair  and  sought  refuge 
near  Camille. 

"  Ah  1  centaur  that  you  are,"  said  he  to  the  count,  who  was  pursuing  Marie.  .  . 
"  to  maltreat  a  woman.  Then  your  mother  was  not  a  woman.  Stop  your  kicking 
and  neighing.  Respect  Mademoiselle  !  " 

He  placed  himself  in*  front  of  the  young  g"irl,  and  in  this  sudden  movement  tore 
the  lace  of  her  dress. 

Mazagran  saw  the  accident. 

"Save  the  dress,"  she  cried,  mocking  at  Marie,  by  whose  honor  she  was 
condemned. 

"Ahl"  exclaimed  Marie,  more  and  more  frightened.  "What  have  I  done? 
Why,  why  did  I  come  here?" 

And  she  ran  toward  the  door. 

"  Marie !  Marie  1 "  cried  Mazagran,  displeased  at  this  flight. 

"  Ah  1  let  me  alone,"  exclaimed  Marie,  in  terror.     "  You  have  ruined  me  1 " 

She  fled  before  they  could  stop  her. 

"  Ruined,"  sneered  Mazagran.     "  Ah  I  poor  dress  !  " 

They  began  to  laugh  at  the  incident,  and  the  laughter  exasperated  Berville 
still  further.  Beside  himself,  he  paced  the  room  with  long  strides,  and  abruptly 
stopped  in  front  of  Friulair. 

"  Ah !  quadruped,"  said  he,  with  profound  contempt,  "  now  you  are  triumphant. 
You  make  a  woman  run.  Your  brutality  is  your  prowess.  Your  nobility,  then, 
is  incurable?" 

"I  have  him  at  last,"  thought  Frinlair.     " This  time  all  is  over," 

And  he  rejoined  haughtily : 


188  The  Itag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"  You  are  goiug  to  withdraw  these  insults,  I  hope." 

"  I  never  take  back  what  I  give,"  said  Canaille,  dryly. 

"  It  is  for  me,  then,  to  thank  you  as  I  must." 

"  At  your  pleasure." 

"  You  know  to  what  these  words  bind  you  ?  " 

"  To  anything  you  please." 

"  Insulted,  I  have  the  choice  of  weapons,"  said  Friulair. 

"  Yes,  it  is  your  right  and  your  habit,"  sneered  Camille,  alluding  to  the  affair  of 
the  banquet.  "Do  you  choose  the  pistol  again?" 

"  No,  the  sword,"  said  Frinlair,  now  fairly  livid. 

"  Very  well,"  assented  Camille. 

"  At  the  Porte  Maillot,  then,  at  eight  o'clock." 

Camille  bowed  slightly. 

"  I  shall  await  you  there,"  he  said,  cutting  short  the  interview. 

"Oh  !  don't  be  silly,"  said  Loiseau;  "see  here,  Camille,  I  want  to  draw  up  your 
contract." 

"  And  I  to  buy  your  stocks,"  said  Gripon.     "  A  duel,  what  madness ! " 

Camille  took  his  cloak  and  hat. 

"Killed  or  married,  what  difference  does  it  make?"  said  he,  turning  his  back 
upon  Frinlair. 

"  I  will  bet  on  killed,"  muttered  the  latter. 

"  With  such  an  adversary  one  must  expect  anything,"  said  Camille,  intentionally. 

And  upon  this  last  word,  which  increased  the  count's  hatred  tenfold,  the  young 
Berville  went  out. 

"  Ah !  gentlemen,"  cried  Louchard,  trying  to  smooth  the  matter  over.  "  A  duel 
to  the  death  for  a  grisette ;  settle  it  with  champagne  rather." 

But  Camille  had  closed  the  door  precipitately,  cutting  off  all  intervention. 

Mazagran  had  lighted  a  cigarette. 

"  What  a  success ! "  said  she. 

Frinlair  took  her  around  the  waist. 

"  Supplanted  by  your  pupil.  Vengeance !  One  always  returns  to  his  first  love. 
Ha,  ha.  .  .  .  For  want  of  a  monk  —  and  what  a  monk !  —  the  abbey  will  not 
close.  We  will  not  let  this  end  our  fun." 

"  End,  never  1 "  said  Mazagran,  explosively.  "  That  would  be  too  silly.  No, 
never ! " 

And  all  repeated  with  enthusiasm : 

"Never  I" 

"  And  our  game ! "  said  Gripon. 

"  And  the  champagne,"  said  Loiseau,  filling  the  glasses  to  overflowing. 

"  And  my  journals,"  cried  Louchard,  taking  Pauline  in  his  arms  and  saying  to 
her  in  a  voice  thick  with  wine :  "  Let  us  collaborate ! " 


The  Masquerade.  189 

Loiseau  poured  bumper  after  bumper,  meanwhile  making  notary's  puns,  stamped. 

All,  carried  away  by  this  example  and  spirit,  drunk  with  wiue  and  tobacco,  be- 
gan to  talk  and  shout,  and  finally  separated  into  couples,  laughing,  dancing,  leap- 
ing, and  singing  between  kisses  and  hiccoughs:  t 

Vive  I' Optra,  vive  I' Optra! 
La  rifla,fla,fla! 

The  waiters  had  retired  respectfully,  foreseeing  that  the  smoking-room  was  to 
be  a  scene  of  orgy,  and  leaving  a  free  field  for  the  gentlemen  and  ladies. 

When  they  left  the  Maison  d'Or  an  hour  later,  a  rag-picker,  busily  filling  his 
basket  with  the  remains  of  Mardi-Gras,  watched  them  pass,  more  or  less  carried 
by  lackeys  and  waiters,  and  murmured: 

"To  think  that  once  I  was  like  that!  Except  that  I  had  no  valets  to  put  me  in 
my  carriage.  It's  a  fine  way  to  behave  1  Fashionable  society,  filthy  society.  .  .  . 
But  I  must  fill  my  basket.  Then  I  can  buy  a  beautiful  bouquet  of  violets  for 
Mam'zelle  Marie." 

And  Father  Jean  resumed  his  task,  paying  no  further  attention  to  the  revellers. 


190  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  DRESS. 

On  this  night  of  Mardi-Gras,  among  other  oddities  of  the  Carnival,  the  curious 
lingerers  upon  the  boulevards  saw,  gliding  along  the  sidewalks  and  spattering  her- 
self from  the  gutters,  a  young  girl  dressed  as  a  bride,  fleeing  in  the  direction  of 
the  Faubourg  Saint- Antoine. 

It  was  Marie.  She  hurried  past  the  pedestrians,  doubling  her  pace,  running, 
flying,  without  noticing  a  man  covered  with  a  quiroga,  who  was  following  her,  per- 
sistently regulating  his  pace  by  her  own. 

Thus,  one  following  the  other,  they  reached  the  Rue  Sainte-Marguerite,  where 
an  important  scene  in  our  drama  was  then  being  enacted. 

A  woman  draped  or  rather  hidden  in  a  large  shawl  had  just  climbed  the  stairs 
leading  to  Marie's  room.  She  carried  a  little  basket  carefully  wrapped  under  her 
arm. 

She  knocked  at  the  young  working-girl's  door,  calling  in  a  smothered  voice : 

"Mademoiselle  Marie,  open  the  door;  it  is  I,  your  customer,  Mme.  Potard.  I 
bring  you  work.  And  then  I  want  to  talk  with  you  on  serious  business." 

And  in  a  still  lower  voice  the  nocturnal  visitor  added : 

"  She  is  so  goodl  she  will  accept  for  a  trifle." 

But  receiving  no  reply,  she  turned  the  key,  which  had  been  left  in  the  lock  by 
mistake,  and  half  opened  the  door. 

"  Nobody  here ! "  she  exclaimed.     "  What  luck  1 " 

She  entered  Marie's  room  as  if  accustomed  to  the  place,  knowing  the  nooks  and 
corners,  and  disappeared  in  a  sleeping-room  adjoining  the  chamber,  returning 
empty-handed  two  seconds  later. 

"Absent  at  this  hour  I "  she  said  as  she  started  off.  "  So  much  the  better.  No 
one  to  share  with  me.  I  can  keep  the  whole." 

She  slapped  her  pocket,  felt  and  fumbled,  looked  about  in  agitation,  and  then 
began  to  cry : 

"Oh!  my  God!  I  have  lost,  lost  all;  what  a  misfortune.  Oh!  no,  it  is  not  pos- 
sible ;  I  must  make  a  thorough  search ! " 

She  went  back  into  the  sleeping-room,  and  then  returned  in  anguish. 

u  Nothing  there,  nothing  here,  nothing  anywhere !     Quick.  ...  I  must  hurry 


The  Masquerade.  191 

back  over  the  route  by  which  I  came.  The  package  must  have  fallen  in  the  street 
or  in  the  doorway.  I  felt  it  but  a  little  while  ago." 

Then,  mortally  anxious,  she  continued  : 

"Perhaps  somebody  has  already  found  it  and  fled.  People  are  such  rascals  in 
these  days.  I  must  find  it  again.  I  must  start  at  once." 

She  was  already  on  the  landing,  but  suddenly  she  drew  back  behind  the  steps 
leading  to  Jean's  garret. 

"  Somebody  coming  1 "  she  exclaimed. 

Marie  had  just  entered  hastily,  closing  the  door  after  her  and  this  time  taking 
the  key.  $ 

The  working-girl's  mysterious  customer  went  down  the  stairs  like  a  shadow  and 
disappeared. 

Alone  in  her  room,  Marie  lighted  her  lamp  and  saw  the  dress,  torn,  soiled,  ruined. 

Then,  with  dishevelled  hair  and  haggard  eyes,  in  a  desperate  mood,  she  fell  sob- 
bing upon  a  chair. 

"What  a  night!"  she  murmured.  "What  a  sin  and  what  a  punishment  I 
Where  has  this  cursed  dress  taken  me?  How  am  I  to  pay  for  it?  Where  can  I 
get  the  money  that  it  cost?" 

She  took  off  the  nuptial  finery  and  put  on  her  own  poor  garments. 

"  All  that  I  have  will  not  be  enough,  no  1 "  she  continued,  beside  herself.  "  An 
abuse  of  confidence,  almost  a  theft,  prison  perhaps.  .  .  .  What  shame!  Never, 
never.  Death  rather!  .  .  .  Besides,  why  live?  I  know  what  it  is  now;  I  have 
seen  the  abyss  to  the  bottom.  Oh  I  these  pleasures  are  crimes ;  these  joys  regrets ; 
this  happiness  remorse.  They  horrify  me.  Thank  Godl  I  succeeded  in  getting 
away.  I  will  never  go  back.  No,  no,  I  do  not  wish  to  fall  to  such  a  depth  again, 
and  remain  there  as  so  mamy  do." 

For  a  few  moments  she  said  no  more,  reviewing  in  her  imagination  the  incidents 
of  this  disastrous  Carnival  night. 

"  And  yet  I  am  afraid,"  she  groaned  at  last.  "Beside  the  man  who  insulted  me, 
the  one  who  defended  me  was  so  noble  and  so  beautiful".  .  . 

But  she  immediately  reacted  against  this  cry  of  her  heart. 

"  Ahl  if  I  were  to  yield  again.  There,  vice  and  dishonor;  here,  struggle  and 
despair !  Neither  the  one  nor  the  other  :  death !  I  shall  die  at  least  virtuous, 
still  worthy  of  my  poor  mother." 

She  rose,  possessed  by  a  fixed  idea,  and  continued  with  a  sudden  firmness : 

"  I  will  rejoin  her.    It  is  over." 

Then,  remembering  the  only  being  in  the  world  who  was  interested  in  her  and 
whom  she  loved,  the  unhappy  girl  went  to  her  table  and  said  with  emotion : 

"  Ah  I  a  word  first  to  my  good  old  neighbor." 

And  with  a  feverish  hand  she  wrote  these  few  words : 

"Farewell,  Father  Jean,  I  throw  off  the  collar  of  poverty,  I  do  not  wish  to  put 


192  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

on  that  of  shame ;  I  can  live  no  longer,  I  want  to  die.  I  charge  you  with  the  sale 
of  my  poor  furniture  and  the  payment  of  the  proceeds  for  the  spoiled  dress.  If 
the  money  should  be  refused,  it  will  serve  to  bury  me  beside  my  mother.  To  re- 
ward you  for  the  trouble  I  leave  you,  in  memory  of  me,  my  father's  watch." 

And  she  signed  her  name,  —  Marie  Didier;  then,  rising  again,  she  said  simply 
and  more  resolutely: 

"Now  then  1" 

With  a  firm  step  she  left  her  room  and  climbed  the  steps  leading  to  her  old 
friend's  habitation. 

Scarcely  had  she  gone  out  when  the  man  in  a  cloak  who  had  followed  Marie 
along  the  boulevard  and  faubourg  pushed  into  the  room  after  a  moment's  hesitation 

"  This  dress  1 "  he  exclaimed,  perceiving  the  wedding  garment.  "  She  lives  here, 
then.  Poor  girll  she  has  come  home  again.  I  have  followed  her,  and,  as  it  were, 
in  spite  of  myself.  But  where  is  she  ?  Shall  I  wait  for  her?  Leave  some  money  ? 
Yes,  but  how  much?  I  will  wait." 

He  sat  down,  surveyed  the  room,  —  something  new  to  him,  —  and  said  to  him- 
self: 

"What  neatness,  it  is  fascinating;  and  what  poverty,  it  is  edifying.  My  heart 
beats  violently.  It  is  strange.  I  never  felt  such  an  emotion.  It  is  not  on  account 
of  the  duel,  for  I  have  fought  ten  of  them.  It  is  not  love,  for  I  think  no  more  of 
that.  But  perhaps  I  am  not  as  dead  as  I  thought.  God  grant  it  1  Let  us  live  I  I 
ask  nothing  better  than  to  love." 

He  looked  again  at  the  dress,  with  the  lace,  which  his  foot  had  torn,  dragging 
on  the  floor. 

"Lucky  awkwardness,"  he  exclaimed. 

And  trying  to  recover  from  this  spontaneous  impulse,  he  laughed  at  it. 

"  Pshaw  1  I  am  having  another  attack.  Love  at  a  masquerade,  the  ideal  at  the 
ball-room  of  Musard  and  Chicardl  It  is  absurd.  We  do  not  meet  angels  in  hell 
....  unless  they  go  there  to  save  devils." 

He  shook  his  head  with  more  of  formal  scepticism  than  of  conviction. 

"  No,  no,"  said  he,  "no  more  miracles.  This  girl  is  as  earthly  as  the  others.  In 
spite  of  her  halo  ...  I  simply  come  to  repair  a  rent." 

He  interrupted  himself ;  the  door  of  the  room  had  opened  again,  and  Marie,  en- 
tering, uttered  a  cry  of  fright  on  perceiving  a  stranger  in  her  apartment. 

Camille  rose  and  bowed  with  involuntary  respect.  He  was  more  and  more  un- 
der the  influence  of  her  charm.  The  young  girl,  in  h«r  modest  garments,  seemed 
to  him  as  beautiful  as  in  her  silk  dress,  and  purer. 

"It  is  I,  Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  bowing  again,  "fear  nothing.  I  saw  you  go 
away  so  distressed  and  offended  that  I  could  not  help  following  you.  I  beg  you  to 
be  kind  enough  to  accept  an  apology  for  our  rudeness  and  the  compensation  that 
I  owe  you  for  this  dress." 


TJie  Masquerade.  193 

Marie  made  an  imperative  gesture  of  refusal ;  and,  in  a  hurry  to  end  the  scene, 
she  said : 

"I  thank  you,  Monsieur;  you  owe  me  nothing,  and  I  beg  you  to  leave  me." 

Camille  bowed,  and  surreptitiously  leaving  his  purse,  filled  with  gold,  on  the 
fable,  he  said : 

"  I  go,  Mademoiselle." 

And  already  he  was  outside. 

Marie,  having  seen  his  whole  proceeding,  recalled  him. 

"Monsieur,  Monsieur,  you  forget".  .  .  . 

She  handed  him  his  purse. 

Camille  shook  his  head  negatively. 

"You  forget  yourself,"  Marie  then  said,  insisting  and  forcing  him  to  take  back 
his  money. 

The  young  man  went  out  in  a  sort  of  enchantment. 

"Oh I  1  am  afraid  of  the  duel  now,"  he  exclaimed,  " of  killing  or  dying.  If  I 
live,  I  will  return." 

He  met  Father  Jean,  whom  in  his  agitation  and  in  the  darkness  of  the  stairway 
he  failed  to  recognize. 

The  old  rag-picker,  before  going  up  to  his  wretched  lodgings,  placed  a  bouquet 
of  flowers  upon  his  young  protegee's  door  knob,  and  then  climbed  to  his  garret. 

Marie  bolted  her  door,  saying : 

"Now  for  the  endl" 

Then,  looking  at  her  rose-bush,  she  added : 

"Ah!  my  poor  flowers,  they  will  survive  me.    Let  them  not  die  with  me!" 

She  watered  them. 

"  And  you,  poor  bird,  go  free ! "  she  added. 

She  opened  the  cage  and  the  window  for  her  goldfinch. 

"Now  I  must  address  this  garment." 

And  she  wrote:  "Mademoiselle  Claire  Hoffmann,  Hotel  Hoffmann,  Faubourg 
Saint-Honore,"  folded  the  dress,  wrapped  it  up,  pinned  the  address  upon  the  bun- 
dle, and  prepared  everything  for  her  suicide.  She  pulled  back  the  bolt,  placed  a 
napkin  over  the  keyhole,  stuffed  a  skirt  beneath  the  door,  stopped  up  every  crevice 
through  which  air  could  come  in,  put  some  charcoal  in  the  chafing-dish,  lighted 
it,  stirred  the  fire,  watched  it  burn  for  a  moment,  and  knelt  before  the  portrait  of 
her  parents. 

Kneeling  and  already  weakened  by  the  fumes  of  the  charcoal,  Marie,  feeling  the 
approach  of  suffocation,  uttered  this  prayer : 

"O  my  father,  my  mother,  I  rejoin  you,  receive  me!     God,  forgive  me!" 

Then  a  feeble  cry  fell  upon  her  ear. 

Listening  in  the  direction  of  the  sleeping-room,  she  said: 

"  What's  that  ?     My  head  swims ;  I  heard  a  cry  there." 


194  The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 

She  rose  quickly,  went  into  the  adjoining  room,  and  came  back  with  a  basket, 
saying: 

"A  child  1  a  child!  a  poor  little  child,  here,  in  my  room,  alive!  O  heaven! 
Who  can  thus  have  abandoned  her  babe?  The  poor  little  thing  is  cold!" 

Covering  him  up,  she  continued : 

"  He  suffers !  he  groans  I    Ah  1  it  is  the  charcoal.  .  .  .    Air,  air." 

She  broke  a  pane  of  glass,  and  put  out  the  fire  with  her  water-pitcher. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?    Kill  him  with  me  ?  " 

Then,  as  if  inspired,  she  said : 

"Oh  1  I  had  not  the  strength  to  live  for  myself  alone !  I  will  live,  I  will  live 
for  him.  Mother,  you  wish  it,  do  you  not?  You  who  toiled  so  hard  for  me.  I 
will  follow  your  example ;  I  accept  this  duty,  this  happiness.  Yes,  yes,  I  accept ! 
henceforth  I  shall  not  be  alone.  Ah !  dear  child,  I  will  be  your  mother;  for  your 
sake,  I  take  heart  and  strength  again.  For  you  I  banish  despair  and  pain.  I  will 
work  day  and  night,  if  need  be ;  and,  if  I  die  in  the  task,  God  at  least  will  forgive 
me  for  this  suicide.  Linen,  linen,  my  best  linen  for  my  baby's  swaddling-clothes ! " 

And  taking  a  new  chemise  from  her  bureau,  she  tore  it  up  and  began  to  sew  ar- 
dently by  the  child's  aids. 


The  Masquerade.  195 


CHAPTER  VI. 

SORTING  THE  RAGS. 

On  his  return  from  his  night's  work,  Father  Jean  had  closed  his  door  and 
dropped  his  basket  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  saying  to  himself: 

"I  will  do  my  sorting.  Meanwhile  Mam'zelle  Marie  will  rise,  and  I  cannot  go 
to  bed  without  saying  good  morning  to  her  and  hearing  her  say  good  night  to  me." 

Twenty  years,  as  we  have  said,  had  passed  over  the  head  of  the  rag-picker. 

He  was  an  old  man  already,  but  of  a  green  old  age. 

All  that  is  old  is  not  always  bad. 

Good  wines  and  good  people  do  not  lose  in  growing  old.  Old  wood,  old  books, 
old  pictures,  old  friends  are  the  best. 

Still  there  is  an  end  to  everything. 

There  comes  a  time  when  old  age  becomes  dryness,  when  the  heart  shrivels  and 
wrinkles  like  the  forehead.  There  comes  an  age  when  all  illusions  are  lost,  all 
tears  shed,  all  affections  gone;  when  what  are  called  the  bumps  of  the  good  pas- 
sions, love,  devotion,  etc.,  sink  into  holes,  and  when  those  of  the  bad  rise  into 
mountains ;  when  man  relapses  into  infancy.  "  This  age  is  pitiless."  Second 
childhood  is  worse  than  the  first;  the  senile  egoism  of  reenvelopment  is  uglier 
than  development;  it  loves  nothing  but  the  past,  has  no  eyea  for  the  good  and 
glasses  for  evil  only,  believing  everything  dead  because  it  is  dying.  Which  caused 
the  poet  Anacreon  to  say:  "Whom  the  gods  love  die  young,"  and  Beranger: 
"  My  children,  God  grant  you  an  early  death  I  " 

Jean  had  escaped  to  some  extent  this  law  of  human  decrepitude.  He  was  en- 
dowed with  such  vitality  that  he  necessarily  remained  sound  and  strong,  and, 
though  his  head  had  turned  white,  his  heart  was  still  red. 

Jean,  like  a  philosopher  worthy  of  the  name,  was  sociable  as  well  as  solitary. 
He  loved  to  talk  to  himself  in  his  garret,  when  he  could  not  talk  to  Marie,  whom 
he  had  watched,  aided,  and  protected,  as  in  former  days  her  mother,  with  honor- 
able intentions,  as  he  said. 

So  on  this  night,  believing  his  young  friend  to  be  sleeping  the  sleep  of  inno- 
cence, he  busied  himself  with  his  rags  and  old  paper,  lighting  his  candle  and 
emptying  his  basket  upon  the  middle  of  his  garret-floor. 

"Let  us  empty  the  casket,"  said  he,  iii  his  good-natured,  jesting  way  .  .  .  "the 


196  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris* 

basket  of  silver-ware,  the  hamper  of  jewels,  the  hunt  after  relics.  .  .  .  Let  us  see 
if  I  have  done  a  fine  day's  work  on  ray  Mardi-Gras,  if  I  shall  find  anything  of 
value  in  this  residue  of  Paris.  It  is  a  small  affair,  Paris,  as  seen  in  the  basket  of  a 
rag-picker  .  .  .  neither  good  nor  beautiful,  the  balance-sheet." 

And  folding  his  arms,  he  said : 

"To  think  that  I  have  all  Paris,  all  society,  in  this  wicker-basket!  My  God, 
yes,  everything  passes  through  it,  rose-leaves  and  paper-leaves;  everything  ends 
there,  sooner  or  later,  in  the  basket." 

He  stirred  the  heap  with  his  foot. 

"Love,  glory,  power,  wealth,  into  the  basket!  into  the  basket,  refuse  of  all  sorts ! 
Everything  comes  to  it,  everything  holds  to  it,  everything  falls  into  it.  .  .  What 
a  melting-pot!  Everything  reduces  to  rags,  tatters,  shards,  stumps,  dish-cloths." 

And,  sitting  down  on  his  stool,  between  the  heap  and  the  basket,  with  the  com- 
mercial tranquillity  of  an  expert,  testing,  judging,  and  measuring  everything  by 
its  value,  volume,  or  weight,  he  said,  starting  upon  his  inventory: 

"  Let  us  see ! " 

Thrusting  his  hook  through  the  first  paper  within  his  reach  and  bringing  it  un- 
der his  eyes,  he  deciphered  with  difficulty : 

"  General  Union  Association  for  the  exploitation  of  gold  mines  in  Auvergne  and 
railroads  in  Mexico.  Baron  Hoffmann  &  Co.  Capital :  One  hundred  millions. 
Shares,  one  hundred  francs  each.  A  good  investment".  .  . 

"Rag!"  exclaimed  Father  Jean,  disdainfully  throwing  the  paper  back  into  the 
basket. 

He  took  a  poster  and  read : 

"  Concert  of  the  celebrated  pianist  without  hands,  given  for  the  benefit  of  deaf- 
mutes,  in  the  Hall  des  Menus-Plaisirs." 

"  Shard ! "  said  he,  throwing  the  programme  together  with  a  broken  plate  into 
the  basket. 

He  picked  up  another  poster,  still  reading  with  his  jocular  curiosity : 

"Overture  of  the  grand  ball  of  the  Opera,  with  new  waltzes  and  quadrilles." 

"Sock!"  he  sneered,  sending  it  to  keep  company  with  an  old  shoe. 

With  the  end  of  his  hook  he  lifted  a  bit  of  embroidered  uniform  and  threw  it 
after  the  rest. 

"  Old  clothes  I "  he  exclaimed. 

A  knot  in  a  buttonhole  making  a  spot  of  red  on  the  end  of  a  piece  of  black  cloth 
attracted  also  his  piercing  hook  as  well  as  his  Parisian  raillery.  He  took  it  and 
looked  at  it  for  a  moment. 

"Ribbon,  tag,"  he  said,  sending  the  Legion  of  Honor  into  the  basket  also. 

A  big  heap  of  papers  bearing  the  title :  "  The  Knights  of  the  Moon." 

"A  newspaper  novel,"  said  he;  "into  the  basket!" 

But  reconsidering: 


The  Masquerade.  197 

"No,  into  the  lodge  1  The  janitress  has  asked  me  for  these  contrivances.  Much 
good  may  it  do  herl  .  .  .  Ahl  a  pamphlet  I " 

"Reception  speech  made  before  the  French  Academy." 

He  seized  an  old  wig  and  threw  both  into  the  basket  under  the  same  heading : 

"Grass!" 

A  new  poster  appeared.    He  examined  it  with  the  same  interest. 

"Monseigneur's  directions  for  Lent." 

"Holy-water  sprinkler! "  he  cried,  joining  it  with  an  aspergillum  in  the  hamper. 

Another  poster  which  he  read  more  attentively. 

"Police  ordinance.  —  Rag-pickers  are  forbidden  to  tear  down  posters." 

"  Pardon  1 "  he  exclaimed. 

And  passing  to  a  letter  written  on  pink  paper : 

"Dear  angel,  my  blood,  my  life,  my  soul,  all  for  you".  .  . 

He  stopped,  and  for  a  good  reason. 

"Ah!  a  blot  .  .  .  and  not  of  ink.  .  .  .     Into  the  basket!  into  the  basket !" 

He  took  next  a  pamphlet  and  deciphered : 

"Memoir  on  the  civil  list,  by  Timon.     Twelve  millions." 

The  pamphlet  went  to  join  the  rest.  But  suddenly  Father  Jean  seemed 
embarrassed. 

He  had  just  perceived  in  the  midst  of  his  dirt-pile  a  crown  branded  with  a 
flower-de-luce. 

"  There,"  said  he,  shaking  his  head,  "  is  something  that  was  worth  twelve  mil- 
lions when  it  was  in  fashion.  What  a  loss ! " 

He  tried  it  on,  and  looking  at  himself  complacently  in  his  remnant  of  mirror, 
he  said  with  a  laugh : 

"  Father  Jean,  king  of  France !     A  good  nightcap." 

But  wrath  followed  his  irony. 

Suddenly  the  rag-picker  tore  the  royal  diadem  from  his  head  and  hurled  it  into 
the  filth. 

"No,"  he  cried  in  horror,  "I  should  dream  of  blood!  Into  the  basket!  Into 
the  basket,  like  the  rest." 

He  remained  silent  for  a  moment  after  this  execution. 

Good  Father  Jean,  perfect  image  of  the  sovereign  people  ....  king  in  name, 
but  slave  in  fact,  a  landless  subject,  like  his  English  namesake,  King  John,  with- 
out fireside,  without  family,  having  nothing  of  sovereignty,  or  even  of  humanity. 

A  man  by  nature,  a  citizen  by  law,  but  in  reality  a  serf,  a  helot,  a  pariah,  a  bas- 
tard disinherited  by  that  step-mother  who  is  country  only  to  the  eldest,  the  legiti- 
mate, the  elect  of  patrimony,  the  only  sovereigns,  those  who  have  all  the  attributes 
of  royalty,  three  in  number,  —  the  vote  that  disposes,  the  soil  that  feeds,  and  the 
weapon  that  defends. 

With  his  jesting  patience  and  his  common  sense  of  the  people,  Jean  resumed 
the  course  of  his  reflections : 


198  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"And  to  think  that  all  that  will  be  made  anew,  fine  glazed  paper,  stamped, 
bank  bills  and  billets  doux,  letters  of  exchange  and  of  love,  of  birth  and  of  death, 
books  and  journals,  all  the  bric-a-brac  of  civilization  ....  and  that  it  will  come 
back  here  again  and  always,  even  to  extermination,  in  the  basket.  O  cast-off 
clothing  of  the  late  Madame  Night-Bef ore  1  O  superb  scraps,  this  is  your  humilia- 
tion, this  is  the  general  rendezvous,  the  common  grave,  the  end  of  the  world,  the 
last  judgment  1  And  the  rag-picker  the  supreme  judge.  .  .  .  Jean,  the  residuary 
legatee  of  Paris.  .  .  .  Yes,  but  held  for  no  debts  beyond  the  assets.  And  what  is 
left  for  the  inheritance?  There  I  a  bone.  .  .  .  How  it  has  been  cleaned  and  dis- 
sected I  It  was  a  ham.  The  master  had  it  first,  then  the  valet,  then  the  dog  .  .  . 
and  I  afterwards  .  .  .  consequently  there  is  nothing  left.  Well!  I  must  eat  my 
dry  bread.  .  .  .  Obedience  to  Monseig  neur's  directions." 

He  took  a  piece  of  brown  bread  from  his  pocket,  and  lifted  a  newspaper  with 
the  end  of  his  hook. 

"  A  piece  of  bread  to  eat,"  said  he,  "  and  a  piece  of  newspaper  to  read :  the  two 
nourishments,  for  one  does  not  live  by  bread  alone.  Eating  and  reading,  as  at  the 
restaurant.  What  more?  Too  happy  the  rag-picker  who  finds  his  bread  in  the 
dirt-pile  and  his  knowledge  in  filth.  Good  appetite.  .  .  .  Waiter,  the  newspaper. 
.  .  .  Here,  there  it  is,  Monsieur  1  .  .  .  Thank  you  ...  ah  1  no,  to  be  sure,  one 
does  not  say  thank  you  ...  it  is  bad  form ".  .  . 

After  having  swallowed  his  little  loaf  with  his  night-tramp's  appetite,  he  began 
to  read  the  newspaper,  using  a  straw  as  a  tooth-pick. 

"  Readers  whose  subscriptions  expire  are  requested  ".  .  . 

He  stopped. 

"They  always  begin  that  way,"  he  exclaimed.  "But  that  doesn't  concern  me; 
I  get  my  journal  free.  Let  us  have  a  look  at  the  news." 

He  began  to  read  in  a  low  voice,  and  soon  was  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  sub- 
scriber. 


Jean  slept  until  his  stool  slipped  from  under  him,  when,  his  head  plunging  into 
his  rags,  he  awoke  with  a  start,  his  journal  in  his  hand. 

He  resumed  his  jocular  soliloquy : 

"  These  buffoon  newspapers  always  have  that  effect  upon  me.  It  is  with  jour- 
nals as  with  oysters,  they  need  to  be  eaten  fresh.  But  I  must  not  speak  evil  of 
old  papers ;  they  are  the  best  part  of  my  property.  Long  live  the  liberty  of  the 
press  and  of  the  basket  1  " 

He  flung  the  journal  into  a  corner. 

"Here  I  am,  at  the  bottom  of  the  heap,"  said  he,  resuming  his  interrupted  task. 
"  The  best  for  the  last." 

And  with  a  thrust  of  his  hook  he  lifted  a  package  of  bluish  paper,  saying : 


The  Masquerade.  199 

"  I  found  this  coming  back  to  the  faubourg,  almost  at  the  door.  What  is  it  ? 
My  sight  is  dim ".  .  . 

He  drew  nearer  to  the  candle  and  read : 

"  Bank  of  France.  .  .    One  thousand  francs".  .  .  . 

Counting : 

"  One,  two,  three.  .  .  Ah  1  my  God,  a  fortune.  .  .  .  Ten  bills  I  Ten  thousand 
francs.  .  .  Poor  devil  who  lost  them  1 " 

But  reflection  corrected  this  spontaneous  cry  of  his  noble  and  honest  nature. 

"  Not  so  poor,  when  one  can  thus  lose  ten  thousand  francs  at  once.  .  .  .  Are 
they  good  ?  .  .  .  They  seem  to  be.  They  are  very  ugly  ".  .  . 

And  then  he  cried : 

"  Ah !  if  they  were  all  mine  .  .  .  what  a  dowry  for  Mam'zelle  Maria  1 " 

He  shook  his  head  as  he  concluded : 

"  Now  I  must  put  them  carefully  away,  until  I  can  return  them.  .  .  .  Suppose 
some  one  should  take  them  from  me  first  I  Ah  1  but  it  is  unhealthy  to  have  bank 
bills.  Already  I  have  a  fever  of  fear  .  .  .  fear  lest  I  may  be  robbed.  Such  things 
happen.  I  saw  much  more  taken  at  the  Quai  d'Austerlkz.  I  will  stuff  them  into 
the  pocket-book  of  that  poor  Didier,  which  has  held  many  others.  Who  knows  ? 
Perhaps  they  have  been  in  it  before.  Well!  at  any  rate  I  will  put  them  in  my 
table.  ...  I  will  lie  on  them.  ...  I  shall  sleep  no  more  ".  .  .  . 

He  rose,  went  to  his  table,  pulled  out  the  drawer,  took  the  pocket-book,  and  ob- 
served a  folded  letter  bearing  his  name. 

"Now  what's  this?"  he  exclaimed,  in  surprise.  "O  heaven!"  he  cried,  mad 
with  despair.  "  Marie  1  foolish  child  1  to  die !  And  Father  Jean  ?  Do  not  die, 
Marie,  live  1  Your  mother  does  not  want  you  to  die.  I  want  you  to  live,  do  you 
hear  ?  Wait !  wait  for  me,  we  are  rich !  ".  .  . 

And  he  rushed  down  the  steps,  the  bank-b  ills  in  one  hand,  the  letter  in  the 
other,  and  screaming  in  anguish : 

"  Oh !  if  I  am  not  too  late ! " 

"  Some  one  comes,"  exclaimed  Marie ;  "  suppose  they  want  to  take  him  back 
again." 

And  she  approach*!  the  child  maternally. 

Then  Jean,  bursting  open  the  closed  door  and  seeing  the  child,  cried : 

"  A  child  1    She  1     So  this  is  the  bottom  of  the  heap !     It  is  complete." 

And  he  fell  upon  a  chair,  overwhelmed  with  distress  and  amazement. 


200  The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE    DUEL. 

This  remnant  of  feudal  morals,  of  the  wild  justice  of  Frank  chivalry  and  of  bar- 
barian nobility,  this  right  of  natural  defence  which  substitutes  force  and  private 
cunning  for  the  law  and  public  power,  this  prejudice  of  an  anti-social  age  when 
the  individual  sustained  his  own  cause  in  the  absence  of  collective  power,  the  duel 
has  outlived  the  declaration  of  rights  and  duties,  the  principles  of  the  French  Re- 
volution; and  our  bourgeoisie,  which  has  inherited  the  privileges  of  the  nobility,  has 
inherited  also  its  assassinations. 

In  spite  of  all  the  eloquence  of  Rousseau,  the  Goddess  of  Reason  of  '93,  and  the 
sovereignty  of  the  People;  in  spite  even  of  the  wise  example  of  aristocratic  Eng- 
land, democratic  and  social  France  keeps  the  duel.  Outside  of  the  people,  who,  I 
hope,  will  not  inherit  this  vice,  all  its  bourgeois  gentlemen,  its  Jourdains  and  Di- 
inauches,  its  republicans  even,  its  citizens  of  the  nineteenth  century,  still  conduct 
themselves  like  the  knights  of  the  age  of  judicial  combats  and  judgments  of  God. 

Montesquieu,  a  feudalist,  explains  why  a  blow  on  the  cheek  is  unpardonable; 
inasmuch  as  the  knight  fought  with  covered  head,  none  but  vassals  could  be 
struck  on  the  cheek.  Hence,  according  to  this  wholly  Garoussian  theory,  the  su- 
preme offence,  the  assault  upon  a  man's  cheek,  calls  for  blood.  That  of  the  of- 
fender we  might  allow,  but  that  of  the  offended  ? 

And  so  it  will  be  until  we  shall  have  sufficiently  elevated  our  life  and  morals  to 
understand  the  lesson  of  solidarity  that,  if  one  man  is  offended,  all  are,  and  that 
the  offender  of  one  is  the  offender  of  all.  • 

That  noble  theory,  "force  before  right,"  still  regulates  all  human  relations,  indi- 
vidual and  collective. 

There  is  even  a  false  code  of  honor,  establishing  and  containing  all  the  absurd 
and  atrocious  laws,  usages,  and  customs  of  this  right  of  the  strongest,  civilizing 
homicide  and  legalizing  murder. 

They  fight  until  blood  is  drawn  or  to  the  de  ath,  with  one  or  several  shots,  at  the 
pistol's  mouth  or  at  a  distance,  hand  to  hand  or  at  sword's  length,  and  with  seconds 
to  say  enough  and  the  doctor  near  by  to  repair  the  too  much,  and  in  all  cases  alike 
honor  is  satisfied.  They  equalize  weapons,  but  neither  strength  nor  skill,  and  in 
any  case  honor  is  satisfied. 


TJie  Masquerade.  201 

They  draw  lots  for  advantages  of  ground  and  position,  but  they  allow  the  ad- 
vantages of  fencing  and  shooting  lessons,  and  still  honor  is  satisfied. 

The  knave  may  be  the  stronger  and  more  skilful  of  the  two, — that  is,  the  con- 
queror,—and  the  honest  man  may  be  conquered  and  dead,  but  always  honor  is 
satisfied. 

For  one  of  these  civilized  crimes,  then,  the  two  old  school  friends,  the  two  rivals 
who  had  already  fought  over  a  love  affair,  met  a  second  time  at  the  Porte  Maillot. 

In  those  days  fighting  was  still  allowed  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne, 

Wood  was  cut  there  also;  there  peaceful  labor  often  met  quarrelsome  idleness. 

On  this  particular  day  a  poor  wood-cutter  was  there,  making  his  poor  fagots,  as 
Piron  would  say,  with  his  poor  child,  His  pale  wife  brought  him  his  meagre  sus- 
tenance, a  breakfast  of  bread  and  cheese  to  revictual  him,  after  two  hours'  work  in. 
the  morning  mist. 

Seeing  a  carriage  stop  at  the  crossing  of  the  roads  and  three  persons  get  out,  the 
wood-cutter  said  to  his  wife : 

"  See,  a  carriage  at  this  hour !  More  bourgeois  about  to  amuse  themselves  by  kill- 
ing each  other.  It  is  laughable  all  the  same.  They  come  with  weapons  to  kill 
each  other  and  a  doctor  to  dress  the  wounds  .  ,  .  and  they  call  that  honor ! " 

"Yes,"  said  the  wife,  "they  would  do  better  to  go  to  work." 

"  I  do  not  understand  the  passion  that  these  idlers  have  for  fighting.  After  all, 
they  have  nothing  else  to  do !  Ah  !  if  they  had  to  cut  wood  all  day  to  earn  bread 
for  a  family,  they  would  not  rise  so  early  in  the  morning  to  bleed  each  other. 
Whence  come  they?  From  the  ball-room,  and  full  of  truffles  and  turkey!  Ah !  if 
I  were  the  government,  I  would  condemn  all  these  valorous  people  to  support  a 
child  of  the  poor.  Children !  they  give  themselves  the  pain  of  making  them  and 
leave  us  the  pleasure  of  bringing  them  up.  T  hope  that  the  Republic  will  change 
all  that.  I  sometimes  feel,  when  I  see  them,  as  if  I  would  like  to  settle  all  their 
quarrels  with  a  few  blows  of  the  axe  and  make  them  into  .  .  .  but  bah !  they  are 
good  for  nothing,  not  even  for  fagots ! " 

Camille,  the  first  at  the  rendezvous  with  his  two  seconds,  of  whom  one  was  the 
workman  with  the  hammer,  had  advanced  during  this  dialogue  between  the  wood- 
cutter and  his  wife. 

He  was  soon  joined  by  his  adversary  still  in  his  Harlequin  costume,  and  Gaston's 
seconds,  dressed  as  a  Merry  Andrew  and  a  Macaire,  having  had  time,  after  their 
supper,  only  to  sleep  off  their  wine  and  get  their  swords  and  a  doctor. 

After  having  exchanged  salutations, Camille  said  to  his  adversary: 

"  This  wood-cutter  is  at  work  here ;  let  us  go  a  little  farther  on." 

"I  am  late  and  fatigued;  let  him  go  farther!  Say,  there,  do  you  hear?  The 
clodhopper  does  not  answer." 

"Because  the  clodhopper  could  not  answer  you  except  with  a  piece  of  green 
wood,  and  he  has  no  time  to  correct  you." 


202  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"Come,  get  away!"  cried  Frinlair  to  the  wood-cutter  in  an  imperious  tone. 

"  Get  away  yourself." 

"Insolent  wretch,"  and  he  lifted  his  cane. 

"How  so?"  and  the  wood-cutter  lifted  his  axe. 

"  Come,  my  worthy  man,  here  is  the  price  of  your  day's  work,"  said  Camille. 

And  he  gave  him  two  dollars. 

"This  workman  is  doing  his  day's  work,"  he  added,  "and  we  have  no  right  to 
disturb  him  for  nothing!  Come,  r»y  good  man,  do  us  the  service  to  go  away." 

"Very  well!  but  this  is  too  much.  You  owe  me  only  half  of  this.  Take  back 
the  rest,  and  good  luck  to  you !  To  give  two  dollars  to  kill  each  other  when  I  earn 
only  one  to  live.  Come,  wife,  let's  be  off." 

•    And  the  wood-cutter,  his  child,  and  his  wife,  took  ea«h  a  bundle  of  fagots,  big, 
medium-sized,  and  little,  and  made  room  for  the  combatants. 

Human  honor,  real  honor,  is  duty,  devotion  to  right,  to  justice  towards  one's 
fellow,  one's  family,  one's  country,  and  humanity. 

As  soon  as  the  duellists  were  rid  of  the  wood-cutters,  Camille  spontaneously  of- 
fered excuses  to  Gaston,  who  did  not  deign  to  receive  them,  and  the  positions  were 
immediately  taken. 

The  two  armed  men  stood  face  to  face,  with  that  instinctive  hatred  which  ani- 
mated at  least  one  against  the  other,  a  hatred  of  race,  as  it  were,  as  well  as  ol 
interest. 

Camille  was  a  pupil  of  PreVot,  a  fencing-master  whose  son,  worthy  of  the  father, 
now  gives  lessons  to  the  president's  guards.  PreVot  was  the  assistant  of  the  great 
Bertrand,  whose  hall  had  preserved  the  classic  tradition  of  the  French  school,  the 
lightning  stroke,  the  straight  stroke  to  the  heart. 

But  Canaille's  master  had  set  aside  the  rules  of  unity;  he  was  romantic  in  fenc- 
ing, saying  with  reason  that  there  is  blood  everywhere  and  not  alone  in  the  red 
heart  of  the  plastron.  He  had  revolutionized  the  duel. 

Camille  did  not  want  to  kill  his  adversary,  remembering  Gaston's  mother,  his 
own,  and  Marie;  all  these  forms  of  goodness  and  beauty  had  driven  hatred  from 
his  heart.  He  wanted  only  to  put  him  hors  de  combat,  abandoned  the  straight 
stroke,  did  not  cross  his  sword,  but  held  it  low,  ready,  on  the  slightest  advance  of 
JFrinlair,  to  stop  him  with  a  thrust  in  the  leg  or  in  the  arm,  in  such  a  way  as  to 
disarm  him. 

Frinlair,  as  supple  as  a  diplomat,  as  adroit  as  a  monkey,  and  more  cunning  than 
strong  at  fencing,  performed  evolutions  like  those  of  a  cat  when  its  tail  gets  caught 
in  a  door. 

He,  on  the  contrary,  wanted  to  kill  Camille,  through  antipathy  first,  and  also 
through  calculation;  he  hated  the  man  and  the  rival.  Camille  was  the  obstacle  to 
the  dowry,  the  shield  before  the  million.  So  it  was  necessary  to  kill  him  at  any 
cost,  and  the  best  way  was  to  make  him  lose  his  guard  and  coolness, 


The  Masquerade.  203 

After  having  thus  dangerously  but  vainly  harassed  him  by  his  skirmishing,  sud- 
denly he  leaped  upon  him,  engaging  him  hand  to  hand,  and  treacherously  seized 
Camille's  weapon,  though  too  late,  whereupon  Camille,  taking  a  step  backward,  ran 
Gaston  through  the  body. 

The  seconds  received  the  victim  in  their  arms. 

Two  strangers  to  the  duel,  who  had  watched  it  anxiously  from  behind  a  clump 
of  trees,  came  forth  at  once  to  shake  hands  with  Camille. 

The  baron,  ever  anxious  about  his  dear  ward,  had  followed  him,  accompanied 
by  Doctor  Dubois,  happy  to  be  of  no  use  to  the  victor. 

The  police  arrived,  as  usual,  after  all  was  over,  took  the  cards  of  the  parties, 
helped  to  put  Frinlair  into  his  carriage  .  .  .  and  justice,  morality,  and  honor  were 
once  more  satisfied  in  France  by  the  flow  of  blood. 

The  duel,  war,  and  the  death  penalty,  to  say  nothing  of  wages,  three  means  of 
the  same  sort,  of  the  same  age,  and  of  the  same  right,  force,  which  arbitration 
alone  can  and  must  replace  immediately  for  the  satisfaction  of  human  honor. 

The  next  day  the  whole  press  told  the  story  of  the  end  of  Gaston  de  Frinlair 
without  more  comment  than  as  if  he  had  died  a  natural  death. 

Gerdme  made  a  portrait  of  him  in  his  best  style. 

The  Bois  de  Boulogne,  becoming  a  park,  relegated  duellists  and  wood-cutters  to 
the  Bois  de  Meudon. 


204  The,  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

THE  BIRTH. 

Let  us  go  back  a  few  hours  in  this  evening  of  Mardi-Gras,  1848. 

Mme.  Potard,  first-class  midwife,  whose  establishment  was  in  the  Quartier  du 
Marais,  was  about  to  take  a  little  rest  at  nightfall,  when  a  ring  of  the  bell  suddenly 
made  her  scold. 

"Another  nuisance,"  she  exclaimed.  "I  can  do  no  more,  I  am  tired  out. 
Births,  miscarriages,  and  the  rest, — there  is  no  end.  Not  to  mention  that  the 
game  isn't  worth  the  candle." 

In  the  meantime  the  servant  entered. 

"Madame,"  said  she,  "a  gentleman." 

"  Ah,  indeed!     Well  dressed  or  shabby,  tell  me?" 

"  Very  chic.    Oh !  a  swell  1 "  exclaimed  the  servant,  admiringly. 

"As  much  as  that?"  asked  Mme.  Potard,  smiling  contentedly. 

"Much  more,"  said  the  servant,  stepping  aside  to  let  her  mistress  pass  as  the 
latter  ran  to  see  her  evening  visitor  in  the  ante-room. 

She'was  about  to  survey  and  question  him  when  he  seized  her  by  the  arm  and 
pushed  her  toward  the  door. 

"  Come,  start  at  once,"  said  he,  "  there  is  no  time  to  lose." 

"But,  Monsieur,"  protested  the  midwife,  "I  must  first  know".  .  . 

"It  is  useless,  time  is  pressing,  the  carriage  waits,  we  will  talk  on  the  way." 

Willy-nilly,  Mme.  Potard  had  to  go  out  and  follow  her  customer. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  she  asked,  when  they  were  once  settled  in  the  carriage. 

The  man,  who  concealed  his  face  under  his  high  collar,  explained  his  business 
in  a  few  words. 

"  I  am  obliged  to  confide  a  grave  secret  to  you,"  said  he.  "  A  young  woman  is 
about  to  give  birth  to  a  child.  How  does  that  happen  ?  That  does  not  concern 
you.  Only  thus  far  are  you  interested.  You  are  to  preside  at  the  delivery.  The 
child  will  be  confided  to  you  and  must  disappear  at  once." 

"  Disappear,"  exclaimed  Mme.  Potard. 

"I  said  disappear,"  repeated  the  stranger. 

"  Oh !  Monsieur,"  replied  the  midwife,  "  you  take  me  ".  .  . 

"  For  what  you  are,"  said  the  man,  drily. 


The  Masquerade.  205 

"But".  .  . 

"How  much  do  you  ask?    One  thousand  dollars ".  .  . 

"  That  would  be  nothing  at  all,"  Mme.  Potard  could  not  help  crying. 

"  Well,  make  your  own  price." 

The  midwife  began  to  exclaim  again. 

"  At  no  price,"  said  she.     "  Disappear  1     How  you  talk  I  " 

And  becoming  suspicious,  she  went  on : 

"In  the  first  place,  one  never  knows  with  whom  one  is  dealing.  The  police  have 
so  many  devices  for  tempting  and  catching  us.  If  one  could  only  be  sure  of  peo- 
ple. ...  If  one  knew  people  .  .  .  perhaps  ...  I  do  not  say  no.  I  like  to  render 
a  service ;  that's  my  business  .  .  .  but,  you  see,  upon  my  conscience.  .  .  .  Who 
are  you?" 

The  man  remained  silent. 

"Are  you  the  master  of  the  house?" 

The  man  leaned  over  toward  the  midwife  and  spoke  a  word  in  her  ear. 

"  Indeed ! "  she  exclaimed.     "  Then  you  ".  .  . 

"  Hush ! "  said  the  other.     "  And  now  let  us  come  to  an  understanding." 

The  midwife  still  professed  reluctance. 

"Really,  I  should  like  to  be  accommodating,  but  you  ask  an  impossibility.  A 
drug,  a  simple  abortion,  that's  all  very  well;  art  has  to  aid  nature.  A  little 
spurred  rye,  etc.,  and  all's  done;  one  does  not  leave  a  trade-mark.  A  fig  for  the 
police  1 " 

And  coming  to  the  point,  she  said  : 

"  There  are  only  two  of  us.  If  you  wish  something  evil  of  me,  there  is  no  wit- 
ness; you  affirm,  I  deny.  So  let  us  be  reasonable.  A  thousand  dollars  for  such 
an  operation  would  be  no  price  at  all.  I  should  not  make  my  expenses." 

"Two  thousand,"  said  the  man,  "and  silence,  for  here  we  are.  There's  your 
money.  Is  it  agreed?" 

"  Why!  since  you  insist  on  so  much,"  said  the  midwife,  following  her  companion 
with  a  quick  step. 

They  entered  an  aristocratic  mansion  by  the  back  door,  and  went  up  stairs  and 
through  the  halls  until  they  reached  a  sleeping-room  where  they  found  a  young 
woman  in  the  pains  of  labor. 

The  midwife  took  in  the  situation  in  no  time. 

"  Oh !  she's  all  right.  The  birth  is  a  normal  one.  Only  fifteen  minutes  more  of 
pain.  There,  bite  your  handkerchief,  my  child,  struggle  as  much  as  you  please, 
and  don't  be  afraid  to  cry  out.  We  will  rid  you  of  that  presently." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  the  patient,  in  horror.     "Who  is  this  woman?" 

"What!"  said  the  midwife;  "then  she  is  not  in  the  secret  of  Paradise?" 

"  No,"  said  the  man,  in  a  low  voice,  "you  will  tell  her  that  the  child  is  dead." 

"Agreed,"  said  Mme.  Potard. 


206  The  Rag-Picker  of  Pans. 

The  time  went  rapidly.    A  final  spasm  drew  a  last  cry  from  the  young  woman. 

"  There  you  are,"  said  the  midwife,  softly. 

The  mother  raised  her  voice  feebly. 

"It  is?"  she  asked. 

"  A  boy,"  said  Mme.  Potard. 

"  Oh !  give  him  to  me,  the  poor  little  one,  and  let  me  kiss  him,"  begged  the 
mother,  in  a  tone  of  ineffable  sweetness. 

But  the  midwife  froze  the  kiss  on  the  lips  of  the  unhappy  woman  with  this  sin- 
gle word :  "  Still-born !  "  saving  which,  she  placed  the  child  in  a  basket  ready  for 
the  purpose. 

The  mother  threw  herself  back  in  the  bed  with  a  heart-rending  cry. 

"You  are  going?"  said  the  man  to  the  midwife.  "Is  there  no  danger  in  leav- 
ing Madame  alone?" 

"  No,"  she  answered.     "  Hers  is  a  strong  nature,  and  she  will  sleep." 

And  the  midwife  bowed  and  retired. 

"Now  I  must  hurry  off  to  the  other,"  exclaimed  the  man,  disappearing  in  turn, 
called  to  another  person  and  another  drama  which  so  interested  him  that  he  was 
willing  to  leave  the  sick  woman  to  the  care  of  a  nurse. 

Thus  passed  several  hours. 

The  dawn  lighted  the  windows  of  the  room. 

The  man  came  back. 

The  sound  of  his  steps  aroused  the  sick  woman  from  her  prostration. 

"Is  he  really  dead?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  and  have  courage,  Claire;  his  father  has  gone  straightway  to  join  him." 

"His  father  I" 

"Yes;  killed  in  a  duel  by  his  rival,  caused  by  a  girl.  .  .  .  All  is  over.  You 
must  be  resigned,  my  child." 

"Oh!  I  shall  go  mad,"  shrieked  the  sick  woman,  fainting  under  this  terrible 
shock. 

"Now  then,"  said  tne  unknown,  ever  imperturbable,  "there  is  no  further  ob- 
stacle to  the  marriage  1 " 


The  Masquerade.  '207 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  REVELATION. 

A  month  after  Frinlair's  death,  Baron  Hoffmann  and  his  daughter  were  sitting 
in  the  same  room,  the  banker  at  a  round  table  with  an  account-book  and  a  pencil 
in  his  hand,  and  Claire  at  another  table  giving  milk  to  a  kitten.  In  the  middle  of 
the  room  Laurent,  the  servant,  and  Rosine,  Mademoiselle's  maid,  had  just  arranged 
a  superb  array  of  wedding  jewels  sent  by  Camille  that  Claire  might  make  a 
selection. 

The  baron  raised  his  head,  saying  in  an  undertone : 

"  His  guardianship  account  is  completed.  ...  I  hold  my  madman,  hold  him  in 
spite  of  everything,  tied  hand  and  foot".  .  . 

And  aloud  to  Claire  he  said,  pointing  to  the  jewels : 

"  Have  you  chosen  ?  It  is  embarrassing.  What  an  array !  Camille  is  eccentric, 
as  usual." 

At  this  name  the  banker's  daughter  gave  a  start  of  horror,  and,  without  answer- 
ing, continued  her  attentions  to  the  kitten,  saying  gently : 

"Poor  little  orphan,  I  take  the  place  of  your  mother,  who  died  in  giving  birth  to 
you." 

And  calling,  she  added  : 

"Rosine,  he  is  cold;  put  on  his  covering,  and  place  him  on  a  cushion  near  the 
fire." 

"  Yes,  Mademoiselle,"  said  Rosine,  going  out  with  the  animal. 

"One  must  love  something,"  sighed  Claire,  looking  pensively  at  the  crosses, 
amulets,  and  missals  that  surrounded  her. 

"You  do  not  answer  me,"  said  the  baron  again,  with  a  shade  of  impatience. 

Rosine  entered  with  a  piece  of  sculpture  in  her  hand. 

"  Ah  I  Mademoiselle,"  said  she,  "  here  is  the  representation  of  Minette  which  the 
aculptor  has  brought  for  her  grave  in  the  garden.  Does  it  look  like  her  ?  " 

"All  right,"  interrupted  the  banker.     "  Let  him  be  paid,  and  go  away ! " 

Claire  took  various  articles  from  a  box  and  handed  them  to  the  servant. 

"Send  these  bread-tickets  to  the  poor  of  this  district,"  said  she,  "this  package  of 
baby's  linen  to  the  infant  asylum,  and  these  religious  books  to  the  prisdn  of  St. 
Lazare." 


208  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"  Yes,  Mademoiselle,"  said  Laurent,  who  went  out  with  Rosine,  saying  in  her 
ear:  "  What  an  angel !" 

The  baron  rose,  and,  approaching  Claire,  said : 

"Come,  pay  a  little  attention  to  what  I  have  to  say.  Let  us  sit  down  and  talk. 
My  daughter,  you  are  a  patroness  of  St.  Lazare,  a  commissioner  of  infant  asylums, 
a  lady  of  charity.  That's  all  very  well,  but  it  is  not  enough.  You  still  lack,  you 
know,  the  title  of  Madame  Camille  Berville." 

"Ah I  never  1"  said  Claire,  trembling. 

The  baron  looked  in  her  eyes,  and  continued  in  a  tone  of  authority  :• 

"  This  last  title  is  needed  to  assure  the  others.  You  must  take  it  at  the  earliest 
possible  moment.  This  marriage,  announced  and  published,  has  been  dragging 
too  long  already.  These  delays  displease  me,  and  even  frighten  me,  for  I  am  be- 
ginning to  be  alarmed  about  Camille." 

Claire  gave  a  start  of  joy. 

"Is  it  possible?" 

"Yes,  since  a  month,  since  his  last  duel." 

The  unhappy  woman  felt  a  mortal  shiver. 

The  baron  continued  pitilessly : 

"Camille  is  transformed,  reformed.  No  more  balls,  no  more  races,  no  more 
gambling,  no  more  debts.  He  is  growing  orderly.  Again  I  say,  that  disturbs  me. 
He  who  all  his  life  has  not  even  calculated  his  own  affairs,  spending  always  with- 
out consideration,  now  has  a  new  skin,  and  is  so  changed  that  one  would  not  re- 
cognize him.  For  the  first  time,  five  years  after  reaching  his  majority,  he  calls  on 
me  for  his  guardianship  accounts.  But  to  lead  him  suddenly  to  become  a  man  of 
order  and  good  conduct  there  must  be  some  mystery,  and  this  mystery  is  very 
much  like  love." 

Claire  felt  an  immense  sensation  of  happiness  in  the  midst  of  her  pain.  She 
foresaw  the  possibility  of  escaping  the  man  whom,  since  the  death  of  her  lover,  she 
had  looked  upon  as  worse  than  an  enemy,  as  the  assassin  of  her  happiness. 

"  Oh  I  I  should  escape,"  s,he  murmured. 

And  feverishly  drawing  nearer  to  her  father,  she  asked : 

"Love,  did  you  say?" 

"Yes,"  said  he,  with  a  frown,  "I  have  made  inquiries.  He  is  enamored  of  a 
working-girl." 

"Of  a  working-girl?"  repeated  Claire,  her  illusions  vanishing. 

"Of  a  dressmaker,"  explained  M.  Hoffmann,  "and  recently,  if  I  am  not  mis- 
taken, at  a  masquerade  supper,  followed  by  that  duel ".  .  . 

Claire  starting  to  go  away,  he  had  to  hold  her  back. 

"Your  coldness,"  he  continued,  placing  himself  in  front  of  her,  "your  delays  are 
the  cause.  Therefore  this  caprice  must  be  cut  short  before  it  becomes  passion. 
This  girl,  as  I  happen  to  know,  is  the  more  dangerous  because  she  resists  him.  .  . 


The  Masquerade. 

through  policy  doubtless.  You  have  been  desirous  of  employing  her  because  she 
was  Didier's  daughter.  You  will  leave  her,  I  hope.  For  a  little  money  she  will 
yield,  and  all  will  be  settled.  I  know  the  man  and  his  extravagance.  Canaille 
spurned  would  be  capable  of  anything.  He  is  already  capable  of  order.  His  love 
then  must  be  promptly  opposed  with  marriage." 

Claire  turned  away  her  head  with  a  feeling  of  repulsion,  saying  in  a  low  voice: 

"Always  that  frightful  marriage!" 

The  maid  just  then  interrupted  with  the  announcement: 

"  Mademoiselle's  dressmaker." 

The  baron  had  a  sardonic  smile. 

"  Your  rival  .  .  .  send  her  aw  ay,"  said  he  to  Claire. 

But  the  latter  made  haste  to  break  off  the  interview. 

"  Bid  her  enter,"  she  ordered. 

Marie,  simply  dressed  as  usual,  entered  timidly,  with  a  pasteboard  box  under 
her  arm. 

"Come  in,  come  in,  Mademoiselle  Marie,"  said  Claire,  looking  at  her  and 
reflecting. 

"She  is  very  beautiful,"  she  said  to  herself.  "Can  he  then  have  fallen  in  loveV 
Oh,  no,  it  is  simply  another  intrigue." 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked  at  last. 

"I  bring  you  back  my  work,"  said  Marie,  hesitating. 

"  Prompt  this  time,"  said  Claire,  alluding  to  the  spoiled  dress,  "and  pardoned." 

Rosine  intervened. 

"  Does  Mademoiselle  wish  to  try  it  on  ?  " 

"Later,"  decided  the  baron,  in  an  imperious  tone.  "The  working-girl  will  come 
again." 

Marie  laid  down  the  box,  but  before  going  out  she  said  to  Claire : 

"  Excuse  me,  Mademoiselle,  I  know  not  how  to  tell  you,  to  ask  you  ....  but 
you  have  always  been  so  good  to  me  .  .  .  you  did  not  leave  me,  in  spite  of  the  ac- 
cident to  the  dress ;  that  encourages  me  to  ask  of  you  another  favor  now." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Claire  in  surprise. 

"Here  is  my  little  bill,"  said  Marie,  in  confusion  .  .  .  "and  I  beg  you  to  make 
no  deduction  this  time,  and  to  pay  me  directly;  for  today  I  am  in  need,  great 
need,  of  money." 

Claire  started  toward  the  round  table,  where  she  kept  her  money-box. 

"Ah!  and  why?"  said  she,  as  she  was  looking  for  the  money.  "You,  so  eco- 
nomical, so  orderly,  Marie;  have  you  then  changed  your  habits  .  .  .  since  the 
ball?  So  much  the  worse." 

And  she  added  with  design : 

"Remember  that  order  is  your  inheritance,  wisdom  your  only  dowry,  and  that 
these  blessings  may  be  more  precious  than  wealth  to  a  man  of  heart." 


210  The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"  I  make  this  request  of  you,"  answered  Marie,  candidly,  "only  because  I  am  no 
longer  alone." 

"  What  1 "  exclaimed  Claire. 

"No,  Mademoiselle.    For  a  month  I  have  had  a  little  baby  in  my  care." 

"  A  baby! "  exclaimed  the  baron,  in  turn. 

"You!"  cried  Claire,  opening  her  eyes  wide  and  not  believing  her  ears. 

"  Yes,  Mademoiselle,"  said  Marie,  with  all  the  simplicity  of  her  innocence,  "  a 
baby  that  I  have  adopted".  .  . 

"A  fine  thing  to  do  at  your  age,"  observed  the  baron,  ironically. 

"That  I  found,"  continued  Marie,  "  a  month  ago,  abandoned,  in  my  room,  on 
the  night  of  Mardi-Gras." 

Claire  and  the  baron  looked  at  each  other,  moved  by  the  same  thought,  and 
grew  suddenly  pale. 

"The  night  of  Mardi-Gras?"  questioned  M.  Hoffmann. 

"  Yes,  Monsieur,  on  returning  from  the  ball,  I  fotlnd  in  my  room,  in  a  basket,  a 
new-born  babe,  which  I  have  kept." 

"  Ah  I "  exclaimed  Claire,  ready  to  faint  and  staggering. 

"Claire! "'said  the  baron,  sustaining  her  and  signalling  her  to  control  herself. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Mademoiselle?"  asked  Marie,  in  a  tone  of  deep  sympathy. 

"Nothing,"  cried  the  baron. 

Then,  changing  his  tone  and  folding  his  arms,  he  continued: 

"And  you  have  kept  this  child?" 

"To  be  sure,  Monsieur,"  confessed  Marie,  "a  poor  little  orphan,  good  people, 
and  it  costs  me  four  dollars  a  month  to  support  him." 

"Beautiful,  but  expensive,"  sneered  the  banker. 

"  Yes,  Monsieur,"  concluded  Marie,  "  and  I  need  money  this  very  day  to  pay  the 
nurse  who  brought  me  the  baby.  So  I  beg  you,  Mademoiselle,  if  it  is  not  too  much 
trouble".  .  . 

The  baron  went  straight  up  to  her  and  said  rapidly  and  sternly : 

"A  child  found  in  your  room  on  returning  from  the  ball!  What  sort  of  a  Car- 
nival tale  are  you  telling  us?  You  abuse  the  interest  taken  in  you  on  account  of 
your  father  who  died  in  the  service  of  the  house.  The  money  will  be  withheld 
from  you  to  pay  for  the  spoiled  dress.  Dress,  ball,  duel,  baby,  your  whole  conduct 
is  a  perfect  scandal,  and  your  impudence  caps  the  climax.  Go  bring  up  your 
adopted  child  as  you  can.  We  owe  assistance  to  misfortune  only." 

Marie  turned  to  Claire. 

"  Ah,  Mademoiselle,"  she  protested. 

"  Father ! "  said  Claire  to  the  baron. 

And  she  started  to  pay  Marie.    The  baron  caught  her  hand. 

"  Go,"  said  he  to  Marie. 

Marie  bowed  and  went  away,  trembling  a«d  anxious. 


The  Masquerade.  211 

"Now,"  she  said  to  herself,  "all  that  remains  of  my  poor  inheritance  for  my 
child." 

The  baron  watched  her  departure,  and  then  said,  addressing  Claire: 

"Show  a  little  more  strength  ;  what's  the  matter  with  you?" 

But  the  young  girl  could  no  longer  repress  her  emotion. 

"  I  am  stifling.     Give  me  air,  air,"  she  articulated  painfully. 

The  banker  opened  the  window  a  little,  and,  ever  master  of  himself,  went  to  his 
table  and  began  to  write,  after  saying  to  Claire : 

"You  almost  betrayed  yourself,  and  but  for  me  ".  .  . 

Claire  walked  up  to  him  resolutely. 

"  You  deceived  me,"  she  exclaimed.     "  You  told  me  he  was  dead .  .  and  he  lives ! " 

The  baron  went  on  writing. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  he.     "  There  is  more  than  one  child  born  in  a  day." 

And,  talking  to  himself,  he  continued  : 

"  Ah  1  the  wretch  1  she  has  deceived  me." 

He  rang. 

"  He  lives,"  Claire  burst  out  again.     "  I  want  to  see  him." 

"How  do  you  know?"  said  the  baron,  sealing  his  letter. 

"  A  voice  here  tells  me,"  answered  Claire,  forcibly,  laying  her  hand  on  her  heart. 
"  I  am  going  to  take  him  back." 

The  baron  rang  again  impatiently. 

"Mad  girl  .  .  .  what  are  you  thinking  of?"  said  he. 

"Of  helping  him  at  least,"  said  Claire,  with  a  purely  maternal  impulse. 

Laurent  entered  and  saluted  his  master. 

"  Silence,  imprudent  girl,"  said  the  baron  again  to  his  daughter. 

And  to  the  servant : 

"Mount  a  horse  directly,  and  deliver  this  note  to  its  address." 

Laurent  went  out  with  alacrity. 

The  baron  continued: 

"Let  us  wait  at  least  until  we  are  sure.  Perhaps  there  is  no  connection  between 
the  two  affairs.  When  we  find  out,  we  will  see.  In  any  case  there  is  all  the  more 
reason  for  hastening  this  marriage  which  saves  everything.  No  more  hesitation  1 
Now  it  is  more  necessary  than  ever  that  you  should  marry  Camille." 

"But,  my  God  1  I  hate  him  ! "  implored  Claire,  in  despair. 

"  And  I  fear  him,"  said  the  inflexible  baron. 

"But  he  is  the  murderer  of  the  man  I  loved  ".  .  .  . 

"  And  who  got  himself  killed  for  another  woman,"  said  the  banker,  sure  of  his 
effect. 

"Ah!"  cried  Claire,  "why  did  you  refuse  to  unite  us?" 

"Why?"  repeated  the  baron. 

Remembering  her  love  and  excited  by  her  hatred,  Claire  grew  bolder. 


212  The  Bag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  "  why?  Was  not  the  count  rich  and  noble,  worthy  of  us?  My 
mother  chose  him  on  her  death-bed.  Why  did  you  reject  him?  Speak !  " 

"Oh!  do  not  ask  it,"  said  the  baron,  apprehensively.  "Remain  in  ignorance 
forever  for  the  sake  of  your  peace.  And  confide  in  my  tenderness  and  my  pru- 
dence for  the  knowledge  and  fulfilment  of  our  duties.  All  that  you  can  know, 
poor  Claire,  is  that  fatal  word  'necessity.'  When  I  first  offered  you  Berville  and 
you  wanted  Frinlair,  I  should  have  been  glad  to  give  you  the  count,  had  I  been 
able ;  but  I  swear  to  you  that  it  was  impossible." 

"  And  I,"  said  Claire,  energetically,  "  cannot  marry  the  other.  That  also  is  im- 
possible." 

"It  is  indispensable,"  insisted  the  anxious  baron. 

"Take  care,  Monsieur,"  declared  Claire,  coldly  and  firmly.  "Your  power  has 
limits  as  well  as  my  duty.  I  will  resist  you.  Say  no  more  about  the  matter." 

"  This  marriage  is  necessary,  and  immediately." 

"Never." 

"  Foolish  girl,"  exclaimed  the  baron,  in  an  un  dertone.  "  Fortune,  honor,  life 
depend  upon  it." 

"How  so?"  Claire  could  not  help  asking. 

But  her  doubt  returned. 

"  No,"  said  she,  "you  are  deceiving  me  again.     I  believe  you  no  longer." 

The  baron,  who  had  made  crime  an  art,  now  saw  success  for  the  plan  which  the 
energy  of  a  daughter  worthy  of  him  had  almost  wrecked. 

He  went  resolutely  to  close  the  window,  and  then  said  solemnly : 

"Claire,  my  only,  my  beloved  child,  I  am  at  your  mercy.  I  no  longer  appeal  to 
your  duty,  I  have  not  the  right.  I  put  my  power  at  your  feet.  Your  old  father, 
on  his  knees  and  with  clasped  hands,  implores  you  in  the  name  of  a  supremo  in- 
terest. Do  not  dishonor  me  in  your  eyes.  Spare  me.  Be  merciful.  ...  Be  self- 
sacrificing.  .  .  .  Our  safety  depends  upon  you.  Be  resigned  without  inquiry  as 
to  the  cause.  Remember  that  to  share  confidence  is  sometimes  to  share  guilt".  .  . 

"I  am  no  longer  to  be  put  off  with  your  reserve,"  said  Claire,  obstinately,  .  .  . 
"  and  I  refuse." 

"  But  we  shall  have  to  abandon  everything,"  insisted  M.  Hoffmann,  panting, 
"  everything,  —  the  house,  Paris,  France,  —  and  fly  like  malefactors." 

"Let  us  start  with  my  child,"  said  Claire,  explosively. 

"Where?  How?"  rejoined  her  father,  overwhelmed,  "with  all  the  ties  that 
hold  us,  the  cables  to  outstrip  us,  portraits  to  denounce  us,  the  newspapers  to  dis- 
cover us ;  with  all  the  splendor  of  our  life,  all  eyes  fixed  upon  us  through  envy, 
hope,  interest.  We  are  placed  under  the 'watchful  eye  of  opinion,  the  surest  of 
all  police.  No,  I  cannot  fly  from  justice ;  I  can  only  dazzle  it  ....  and  this 
marriage  1".  .  .  . 

Claire  interrupted  him. 


The  Masquerade.  213 

"I  do  not  understand  you,  Monsieur.  I  committed  a  sin  to  force  your  consent 
to  an  honorable  marriage;  I  will  do  more  to  resist  an  odious  marriage.  Death 
rather  than  this  marriage !  " 

"Well,  since  you  insist  upon  it,"  cried  the  banker,  beside  himself,  "listen  then 
to  that  which  no  one  but  myself  knows;  which  I  hoped  to  carry  to  the  grave; 
which  I  wanted  to  forget,  to  hide  from  all,  from  you  especially,  and  which  you 
force  me  to  reveal  to  you.  Do  you  not  see,  then,  from  my  despair,  that  a  mortal 
secret  lies  beneath  it,  and  that  you  will  never  forgive  me  for  making  it  known  to 
you?" 

"  I  tremble,"  she  murmured,  frightened  by  the  baron's  excitement. 

She  added  in  a  louder  voice : 

"I  am  listening." 

"  Learn  then,  if  you  will,"  said  the  baron,  in  a  hollow  voice,  "  this  terrible  secret, 
the  fatal  past  that  engages  and  governs  our  future.  A  youth  as  reckless  as  Ca- 
mille's  formerly  threw  me  from  the  heights  of  fortune  into  the  depths  of  misery,  and 
I  fell  lower  yet  in  trying  to  save  myself  and  then  to  lift  myself." 

"You  make  me  shudder,"  said  Claire,  terrified. 

The  baron  continued: 

"  I  rose  a  guilty  man,  a  criminal." 

"  Enough,"  cried  Claire,  recoiling. 

"  This  is  my  punishment,"  said  the  baron,  lowering  his  head;  "  I  horrify  you  as 
well  as  myself.  Now  you  will  not  dare  to  touch  my  hand.  But  you  wanted 
to  know  all,  and  you  shall  know  all.  Poverty,  stern  teacher,  had  instructed  me." 

He  stopped  to  breathe,  and  then  went  on : 

"  With  gold  found  in  blood,  I  gained  an  entrance  under  a  false  name  into  the 
house  of  Camille's  father,  who,  ruined  by  my  crime,  took  me  first  as  a  partner,  then 
as  a  friend  and  relative,  and  finally  as  guardian  of  his  son.  I  hoped  then  that  the 
first  crimes  would  be  the  last  ....  but  alas !  crime  has  its  fertility.  It  became 
necessary  to  make  my  ward,  the  son  of  the  man  whom  I  had  ruined,  my  own  son- 
in-law  in  order  thus  to  mingle  our  destinies  and  prevent  any  prosecution.  One 
can  stifle  remorse,  but  not  fear.  To  bring  my  ward  to  this  end,  I  urged  him  on 
in  dissipation;  I  knew  from  my  own  experience  whither  that  leads  .  .  .  and  I 
have  succeeded.  He  is  lost  without  us,  as  we  are  without  him." 

The  baron  hesitated  again. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  all.     Have  mercy !     Spare  me,"  he  stammered. 

And  in  a  lower  voice  he  faltered : 

"  But  it  was  necessary ;  Gertrude  ....  she  was  an  obstacle,  and  her  sickness 
needed  only  to  be  aided." 

Claire  sank  down,  overwhelmed. 

"  No  more  hope  1 "  she  exclaimed. 

The  baron  resumed : 


214  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"  There  remained  your  passion  for  the  count  and  the  cursed  fruit  of  that  dis- 
astrous love.  ...  I  had  to  overcome  these  last  obstacles  like  the  others,  break 
your  heart,  poor  Claire,  sacrifice  you  to  the  same  necessity  ...  for  it  was  necessary, 
and  it  is  still  necessary,  for  me  to  have  Camille  for  a  son-in-law." 

"  It  is  death,"  said  Claire,  crushed  by  this  conclusion. 

The  baron  insisted  further,  inflexible  in  his  logic  of  evil. 

"Heaven  itself  has  condemned  the  other  marriage.  Submit,  then,  to  this  one,  a 
marriage  of  salvation  for  all.  Even  though  your  child  should  be  living,  is  he  of 
more  consequence  than  your  father,  tha  n  yourself  ?  For  you  too  have  a  secret  to 
hide,  to  cover  with  the  nuptial  veil,  a  secret  fatal  like  my  own  .  .  .  still  more  so 
perhaps,  for  my  victims  are  no  more,  while  yours  perhaps  still  lives,  and  the  count, 
the  count  is  dead!" 

Claire  straightened  up  again,  preparatory  to  going  out. 

"  Oh !  unhappy  woman  that  I  am ! "  she  said.  "  For  you  all  that  gold  can  give, 
the  superfluous  and  the  necessary,  jewels  and  a  dowry,  millions  in  your  hands,  dia- 
monds on  your  brow,  honor,  homage,  everyt  hing  in  short,  except  your  heart ! 
Love  what  you  hate  I  Kill  what  you  love  I  Shed  your  blood,  drink  your  tears ; 
smile  when  your  heart  bleeds  in  every  fibre ;  make  yourself  a  living  sacrifice  to  so- 
ciety I  Immolate  rights  and  duties,  conscie  nee  and  nature,  for  the  monster  I  For 
its  sake  make  an  infamous  holocaust  of  your  holiest  passions  1  Happy,  happy  the 
poor  girl  who  went  away  from  here  just  now  1  Yes,  my  God,  I  envy  her.  A  gar. 
ret,  a  woollen  dress,  a  crust  earned  by  toil,  humility,  and  poverty,  but  at  least  the 
liberty  of  her  heart.  .  .  .  My  father,  I  resist  no  longer,  you  have  killed  me." 

And  she  went  out. 

The  baron,  left  alone,  was  seized  by  a  sort  of  fit  of  delirium. 

"  What  a  struggle ! "  he  exclaimed ;  "  a  woman's  conscience  dies  hard.  She  re- 
vives my  own.  In  spite  of  myself,  her  terrors  take  possession  of  me.  I  would 
rather  kill  a  man.  .  .  .  And  yet  what  work  is  that  I  It  is  to  kill  humanity  1  Im- 
placable logic  of  crime  I  My  life  is  now  but  one  long  murder  of  my  own  and  of 
myself,  perpetuating  itself  like  the  tsenia.  March  on,  Wandering  Jew  of  crime ! 
Kevolve  in  this  circle  of  blood  and  tears,  without  other  issue  than  Clamart.  Oh, 
fortune,  how  expensive  you  are  when  you  cost  a  man  his  life  1  When  I  chose  mur- 
der in  preference  to  suicide,  I  expected  to  live  rich  and  happy,  to  repair  the  evil  by 
doing  good.  Miserable  fool!  Evil  breeds  evil.  I  have  not  wealth,  for  I  have 
killed  repose.  I  have  not  happiness,  for  I  have  killed  my  daughter.  I  have  not 
life,  for  I  am  dead,  without  death's  peace.  Oh !  murder  is  the  great  suicide.  In 
killing  a  man,  I  have  killed  myself.  .  .  .  Yes,  the  newspapers  told  the  truth :  the 
Duke  de  Crillon-Garousse  is  dead  1 " 

But  he  heard  a  knock  at  a  secret  door,  which  he  opened,  after  having  secured 
the  door  at  the  back  of  the  room. 

Madame  Potard  entered. 


The  Masquerade.  215 

"Ah!  here  you  are,  Madame,"  said  the  baron,  recovering  his  self-possession. 

"  Yes,  Monsieur,  at  your  service,"  said  the  midwife. 

"The  sight  of  her  restores  me  to  myself,"  said  the  baron,  aside.  "Help  your- 
self, and  heaven  will  help  you." 

"  You  have  sent  for  me,"  said  Madame  Potard.    "  Is  Mademoiselle  indisposed  V  " 

"  No,  she  has  only  changed  her  opinion.  Woman  varies.  She  would  like  to  see 
the  child  again,  if  possible." 

"  Ah  1  so  much  the  better  I "  exclaimed  Madame  Potard. 

"So,  then,  Madame,"  said  the  baron,  in  a  threatening  voice,  "you  have  violated 
all  your  agreements.  You  promised  to  put  it  out  of  the  way." 

Madame  Potard  stammered : 

"But  .  .  .  Monsieur".  .  . 

"  To  put  it  out  of  the  way  forever,"  added  the  baron. 

"  Ah !  Monsieur,  forgive  me,"  begged  Madame  Potard,  "  I  am  wrong,  I  confess. 
I  did  not  have  the  strength.  .  .  .  And  then,  doubtless  it  was  not  Mademoiselle's 
wish.  I  did  not  know  what  to  do.  But  be  reassured;  I  have  lost  the  child  as 
much  as  possible ;  it  is  with  a  poor  girl,  where  it  will  never  be  found." 

And  sobbing,  she  added : 

"  Any  more  than  the  money  that  I  lost  at  the  same  time." 

"Capable  of  anything,"  sneered  the  banker;  "so  dishonest  that  she  even  does 
good  when  she  promises  to  do  evil." 

"  Ah  I  I  am  punished  enough  by  the  loss  of  the  notes." 

"Lost  like  the  child.  ...  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,  and  you  must  return 
them  to  me." 

"I  haven't  them  1 "  cried  Mme.  Potard ;  "I  haven't  them,  as  true  as  God  hears 
mel" 

"So  you  have  lost  them  all?" 

"  Alas  1  yes,  Monsieur,  the  whole  ten." 

"  Well,  I  will  replace  them,  if  you  like." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"If  you  will  do  what  you  have  not  done." 

"But  .  .  .  Mademoiselle  .  .  .  does  she  think".  .  .  . 

The  baron  thought  the  abortionist  was  trying  to  blackmail  him. 

"  Then  you  have  these  notes  still,"  said  he ;  "  you  must  return  them." 

"  No,  no,  not  one,  I  swear  to  you !  "  affirmed  Mme.  Potard,  with  a  tone  of  sorrow- 
ful sincerity. 

"  Then  I  double  them." 

"Twenty  thousand  francs!    What!  you  really  wish".  .  . 

"  Twenty  thousand  francs,  today,  this  moment." 

"  You  insist,  Monsieur,  you  force  me  to  it ;  so  be  it,  then ;  I  can  no  longer  refuse 
you.  You  will  give  me  twenty  thousand  francs  this  vary  day  ?  " 


216  The  Ray^Picker  of  Paris. 

"And  everything  will  be  done  this  time?  "  questioned  the  baron,  distrustfully. 

"Yes,  Monsieur." 

"  And  you  will  leave  Paris  ,  .  .  which  is  not  healthy  .  .  .  for  returned  convicts." 

"What  I  you  know?" 

"  Your  whole  record  .  .  .  sentence,  breaking  of  the  ban,  and  false  name.  You 
are  a  relative  of  Gripon,  and  free  through  his  protection.  Your  name  is  not  Po- 
tard,  but  Gavard.  Is  it  not  so  ?  " 

"  I  will  leave  France,  if  it  is  necessary,"  pro  mised  Mme.  Potard,  satisfied.  "  I 
carry  my  country  in  my  pocket,"  said  she,  in  a  low  voice ;  then  aloud :  "  Yes,  Mon- 
sieur, I  will  start  some  moonlight  night  and  never  return." 

"It  is  well,"  said  the  baron,  reflectively.  "Misfortune  is  good  for  something. 
.  .  .  Yes,  a  double  stroke  .  .  .  the  rival  and  the  child." 

He  took  his  hat  and  cane. 

"Come  along,"  said  he  to  the  midwife,  "but  this  time  I  watch." 

And  they  went  out  by  the  secret  door, 


The  Masquerade.  217 


CHAPTER  X. 

FATHER  JEAN. 

Marie  had  hurriedly  returned  to  the  Rue  Sainte-Marguerite.  The  idea  that  her 
adopted  child  might  want  milk  for  lack  of  money  lent  her  wings.  She  forgot 
everything,  the  insult  suffered  and  Camille,  who  was  to  come  that  day,  —  for  the 
young  man  had  kept  his  promise  to  hi  mself,  and  had  returned.  The  politeness  of 
the  early  days  had  given  place  to  tenderness,  compliments  to  sentiments  and  oaths. 
Between  the  young  people,  at  least  on  Camille's  side,  it  was  no  longer  a  question 
of  friendship  and  protection,  but  of  love  and  passion. 

Father  Jean  did  not  view  these  attenti  ons  favorably,  but  he  had  patience,  show- 
ing himself  as  discreet  as  he  was  attentive  and  devoted  to  Marie. 

The  latter,  on  reaching  home,  began  to  search  her  drawers  with  a  haste  made  all 
the  greater  by  the  shrill  voice  of  the  new-  born  infant  proceeding  from  the  sleeping- 
room  adjoining  the  chamber. 

"I  must  be  quick,"  said  she,  growing  excited.  "My  father's  watch  and  my 
mother's  wedding-ring,  my  entire  inheritance,  all  for  you,  dear  little  ".  .  . 

The  child's  voice  was  hushed. 

"He  sleeps,"  continued  Marie,  listening  as  she  looked  for  her  family  relics. 
"  This  watch  which  has  marked  all  the  hours  of  my  life ;  this  ring  with  which  I 
hoped  never  to  part,  even  in  death ;  all  that  is  left  of  my  own, — I  must  give  them 
up  at  last,  pawn  them  for  the  nurse's  month's  pay." 

Just  then  came  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"Ah!  it  is  you,  Father  Jean!"  exclaimed  Marie,  opening  the  door  for  the  old 
rag-picker,  who  came  in,  with  a  poster  in  his  hand,  shouting: 

"  Good  news !    I  have  found  the  owner  of  the  notes." 

"  Really!    So  much  the  better! "  said  the  young  girl. 

"Yes,"  continued  Jean;  "this  morning  I  picked  up  a  poster  a  month  old;  see!" 
And  he  read:  "Lost,  on  the  night  of  February  12,  in  going  from  the  Faubourg 
Saint-Honore'  to  the  Faubourg  Saint-Antoine,  ten  thousand  francs  in  bank-notes. 
The  finder  is  requested  to  return  them  to  the  widow  Potard,  midwife,  at  No.  4, 
Rue  Saint-Louis,  where  he  will  be  suitably  rewarded." 

"  At  last,  then,  I  can  restore  them,"  he  said,  as  he  finished  reading. 

"  Good  riddance ! "  approved  Marie, 


218  The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Jean,  folding  up  the  poster  and  putting  it  in  his  pocket. 

"Madame  Potard,  you  say?"  said  Marie,  suddenly;  "why, she  is  one  of  my  cus- 
tomers. ...  I  am  very  glad  for  her." 

And  still  hunting,  she  added : 

"Where  did  I  put  that  watch?" 

"Vow,  to  be  entirely  contented,  I  should  like  also  to  find  the  owner  of  the  child,'' 
ventured  Father  Jean,  who  had  immediately  dismissed  his  first  thought  of  suspicion. 

"  Ah  I  Father  Jean,  that's  a  different  matter." 

Jean  was  not  disconcerted. 

"Now  that  I  think  of  it,"  said  he,  "  perhaps  this  midwife  can  tell  us  something. 
Who  knows?  It  is  such  a  great  chance,  and  among  her  acquaintances.  .  .  I  will 
speak  to  her  about  it.  Yes,  I  am  as  anxious  to  see  you  rid  of  the  child  as  myself 
rid  of  the  money." 

"Poor  little  fellow!  in  fact,  perhaps  it  would  be  better  for  him.  .  .  .  But  no, 
Father  Jean,  he  was  not  lost  by  chanee  ;  and  those  who  abandoned  him  did  so  be- 
cause they  could  not  keep  him.  He  is  far  better  off  with  me  than  with  those  who 
left  him  kere." 

Jean  shook  his  head. 

"  That's  all  very  fine ;  but  no  doubt  you  have  spent  another  night  in  working  for 
him;  it  will  kill  you." 

"On  the  contrary,  Father  Jean,  it  keeps  me  alive;  but  for  him  I  should  be  dead, 
as  you  well  know." 

Jean  made  a  movement  of  affectionate  brusquerie. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know;  it  is  he  who  obliges  you;  it  is  he  who  is  ruining  himself  for 
you.  There  is  no  sense  in  it.  He  is  costing  you  the  eyes  in  your  head.  Where  is 
your  new  shawl?  All  your  poor  effects  will  go  the  same  way.  Again  you  have 
stripped  yourself  for  him,  I  am  sure.  Be  seated  while  I  talk  to  you  a  little.  I  have 
not  finished." 

Marie,  having  found  the  watch,  yielded  to  his  desire. 

"Ah!  here  it  is!  ....  Well,  Father  Jean,  be  quick;  what  more  have  you  to 
say?" 

Jean  sat  down  beside  Marie,  -and  went  on  with  embarrassment. 

"  Simply  that  you  are  too  good ;  you  are  wrong,  Mam'zelle.  You  know  the  pro- 
verb :  '  the  wolves  devour  those  who  are  too  good.'  Well,  you  listen  only  to  your 
heart.  You  have  a  passion  for  doing  good  to  others ;  you  do  it  secretly,  like  the 
good  girl  that  you  are ;  and  then,  when  it  is  discovered,  it  turns  against  you  ".  .  . 

Then,  with  an  effort,  ke  added: 

"Yes,  Mam'zeHe,  I  must  tell  you  at  last;  they  gossip  about  this  child." 

"Well,  let  them  talk,  Father  Jean,  cost  what  it  may.  It  is  better  to  be  honest 
than  to  pretend  to  be." 

"  That  is  not  all,  Mam'zelle.  I  do  not  kncrw  whether  I  ought  to  finish.  Perhaps 
it  is  not  my  right.  .  .  .  Surely  it  does  not  concern  me  ".  .  .  . 


The  Masquerade.  219 

Marie  gave  a  start  of  surprise  and  annoyance. 

"Ahl  don't  be  angry!  "  said  Jean,  with  growing  embarrassment.  "It  is  purely 
in  your  interest.  And  then  for  some  time  you  have  been  very  dreamy,  and  a  young 
man  comes  to  see  you  ....  a  handsome  young  man  ....  doubtless  very  honest 
and  very  reserved  with  you,  but  also  to  o  rich  for  you,  Mam'zelle.  .  .  In  short,  the 
child  on  one  side,  the  young  man  on  the  oth  er  .  .  .  one  cannot  keep  evil  tongues 
from  wagging,  and  I  should  like  to  see  the  y  oung  man  and  the  child  in  their  pro- 
per places  as  well  as  the  notes." 

"Father  Jean,  I  have  nothing  to  fear,"  answered  Marie,  "nothing  with  which  to 
reproach  myself.  I  did  not  think  it  wrong  to  receive  the  excuses  of  this  young 
man  after  the  accident  to  the  dress.  If  I  have  done  wrong,  I  will  see  him  no  more 
.  .  .  but  as  for  the  child,  Father  Jean,  that  is  different,  I  insist.  Oh !  you  do  not 
mean  what  you  say." 

"  Yes,  begging  your  pardon,  Mam'zelle,"  insis  ted  Jean,  "  a  child  of  misfortune, 
superfluous  like  myself,  like  all  beggars.  .  .  .  Beggars !  there  is  no  need  of  being 
careful  of  the  seed.  They  will  always  grow  fast  enough.  So  think  more  of  your- 
self and  less  of  others.  Each  one  for  himself  1 " 

"Ah!  Father  Jean,"  exclaimed  Marie,  "how  can  you  talk  so?  Then  you  have 
never  loved  any  one?  Did  you  never  have  parents?  Oh!  Father  Jean,  when  one 
has  loved  an  old  mother,  one  loves  little  children.  If  you  only  knew  how  good  it 
is  to  love  some  one!  But  say,  why  then  are  you  interested  in  me?" 

"Why?  why?"  repeated  Jean,  disconcerted. 

And  Marie,  affectionately  insisting,  said: 

"Yes,  why?" 

"  Why?    Well,  I  will  tell  you,"  said  Jean,  frankly. 

"Ah!  that's  it;  tell  me  that." 

Jean,  after  a  thoughtful  pause,  began : 

"  A  child  of  Paris,  I  was  born  I  know  not  where,  I  know  not  when,  I  know  not 
of  whom,  abandoned  like  the  orphan  that  you  have  found.  My  mother,  the  un- 
known, cast  me,  like  him,  into  the  arms  of  misfortune  or  of  crime  ....  into  the 
arms  of  chance,  to  grow  up  as  I  might.  I  am  of  that  race  of  starvelings  who,  hav- 
ing so  hard  a  life,  live  nevertheless,  willy-nilly.  .  .  .  How?  Why?  No  matter! 
a  mushroom  from  the  muck-heap  of  Paris,  a  stump  from  the  streets  of  the  capital, 
one  of  the  offscourings  of  the  old  city  which  time,  that  master  rag-picker,  gathers 
into  his  huge  basket  when  he  sees  them.  For  sixty  years,  hook  in  hand,  I  have 
thus  been  dragging  about  the  streets  of  Paris,  which  I  have  never  left,  where  I 
have  always  lived,  or  rather  where  I  have  not  died,  —  for  really  one  cannot  call  it 
living.  Would  you  believe,  Mam'zelle  Marie,  that  I  have  never  seen  the  fields,  the 
grass,  except  in  the  market-squares.  .  .  I  don't  know  why  I  think  of  all  this  just 
now.  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  it  is  to  show  you  that  I  have  never  known  anything  but  the 
pavements  and  the  passers-by." 


220  The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"Poor  Father  Jean,"  said  Marie,  moved.  "  How  have  you  managed  to  live  in 
this  way?" 

"It  is  as  I  tell  you,  Mam'zelle ;  as  a  child,  I  had  neither  father  nor  mother;  as  a 
man,  I  have  had  neither  wife  nor  child.  Nobody  has  ever  loved  me ;  I  have  never 
loved  anybody.  I  haven't  had  the  means.  It  isn't  every  one  that  can  afford  to 
have  a  family.  It's  expensive,  you  see.  I  was  too  poor  to  have  one,  and  I've  gone 
without.  Ah!  when  I  came  home  all  alone  to  my  den,  the  four  walls  were  very 
large,  and  yet  my  heart  felt  cramped  within  them.  It  was  very  empty,  and  I  sti- 
fled. I  turned  about  like  the  bear  Martin  in  his  cage,  and  sometimes  growled,  as 
he  does.  I  was  cruelly  tormented.  I  remember  that  one  day  I  wished  myself  in 
prison  that  I  might  not  be  alone.  That  day  I  was  thirty  years  old  ...  up  to  that 
time  I  had  been  called  Jean  for  short  ....  it  was  quite  enough  for  a  single  man 
.  .  .  but  after  that  I  was  known  as  Father  Jean.  This  name  father  put  me  beside 
myself.  At  that  time  I  believe  I  should  have  stolen  a  child  but  for  the  necessity 
of  feeding  it.  ...  Ah!  you  are  better  than  we!  But  I  could  no  longer  live  so; 
you  are  right.  Then  I  took  to  the  weed, — pardon  me,  Mam'zelle,  —  to  tobacco 
and  brandy.  Those  are  friends,  those  are  relatives!  They  are  known  as  consola- 
tion .  .  .  brandy  especially.  When  one  is  alone,  one  gets  drunk.  That  makes 
people;  one  sees  double.  Yes,  I  saw  at  the  bottom  of  my  glass  all  my  imagina- 
tions, a  household,  children  around  me,  and  a  wife  making  soup  and  setting  the 
table  for  us  all.  I  lived  like  that,  or  rather  I  was  killing  myself,  I  was  killing  my- 
self body  and  soul,  Mam'zelle.  Each  of  us  has  his  suicide.  You  have  charcoal  and 
we  three-six.  I  was  always  drunk, — yes,  that's  the  word,  dead-drunk.  But  one 
night  a  great  misfortune,  the  death  of  a  man  ...  of  which  my  wine  was  to  a  cer- 
tain extent  the  cause  .  .  .  one  can  never  foresee  the  consequences  of  wine  .  .  .  the 
death  of  a  poor  father  of  a  family,  Mam'zelle,  which  I  could  not  prevent,  because  I 
was  drunk,  made  me  swear  to  drink  no  more,  to  take  his  place,  to  look  out  for  his 
child." 

Looking  at  her  with  tenderness,  he  asked : 

"Have  you  ever  seen  me  drunk  a  single  time  since  I  came  to  live  near  you? 
Formerly  I  could  not  stand  it  to  go  without  drinking  for  a  day  ...  and  now,  now 
I  could  not  stand  it  to  go  a  day  without  seeing  you.  Devil  take  me,  I  think  now 
only  of  you,  Mam'zelle  Marie;  you  have  broken  all  the  glasses,  and  I  feel  some 
thing  sweet  and  new  which  I  cannot  explain,  but  which  is  better  than  drinking, 
be  sure ! " 

"Is  it  not,  Father  Jean?"  said  Marie,  with  feeling. 

"Yes,"  continued  Jean,  "when  I  saw  you  so  good,  sewing  as  many  hours  as  there 
are  figures  on  your  watch,  caring  for  your  poor  mother,  bringing  up  this  child,  I 
said  to  myself  what  you  said  just  now,  that  it  is  good  to  love  some  one,  and  I  be- 
gan by  loving  you.  .  .  .  Indeed  I  don't  know  how  I  love  you,  whether  it  is  as  a 
daughter  or  as  a  sister  or  otherwise  ...  I  cannot  tell  you.  I  don't  know  myself 


The  Masquerade.  221 

in  this  matter,  having  never  loved  or  hated  anybody.  All  that  I  know  is  that  my 
age  is  about  the  same  as  would  have  been  your  father's.  Yes,  that's  it,  I  love  you 
as  my  daughter.  And  when  you  call  me  Father  Jean,  it  reconciles  me  to  the  name. 
I  take  you  at  your  word;  my  poor  heart  leaps  in  my  breast.  I  would  give  a  pint 
of  my  blood  to  save  you  a  tear,  and  I  would  weep  night  and  day  like  the  fountains 
in  the  public  squares  to  cause  you  to  smile  but  for  a  moment." 

"  A  tear !  a  tear ! "  said  Marie,  with  emotion. 

Jean,  laughing  and  crying  at  the  same  time,  confessed  his  weakness. 

"Yes,  dear  child,  a  tear,  a  tear  of  joy,  that's  what  it  is  1  Let  it  flow ;  indulge  this 
poor  old  heart,  which  has  never  been  able  to  make  up  for  lost  time  in  all  its  life 
with  you.  It  is  all  pleasure  and  never  enough.  When  you  look  at  rne  with  your 
beautiful  clear  eyes,  your  pink  cheeks,  your  blooming  mouth,  and  your  perfect 
bouquet  of  a  face,  it  always  seems  to  me  like  a  celebration  .of  my  birthday  1  And 
when  I  can  come  here  like  this,  sit  by  your  side,  talk  with  you,  take  your  little 
white  hands,  and  press  them  gently  between  my  own,  yes,  I  am  happy,  it  intoxi- 
cates me.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  too  have  a  family,  a  child,  my  right,  my  share, 
the  share  of  joy,  in  short,  due  to  every  man  who  has  a  heart.  .  .  That,  Mam'zelle, 
is  why  I  am  interested  in  you." 

Marie  leaped  upon  his  neck,  and,  embracing  him  with  all  her  grateful  heart, 
cried : 

"  My  good  Father  Jean !  " 

"Ah !  "  said  Jean,  clasping  her  joyfully  in  his  arms. 

"  Well,"  said  Marie  abruptly,  returning  to  the  subject  of  her  baby,  "  I  love  the 
little  one  just  as  you  love  me,  and  I  am  going  to  try  to  get  the  money  for  his 
nurse." 

She  brought  in  the  child. 

"See,  he  has  waked;  isn't  he  pretty?"  said  she  to  Father  Jean,  who  was 
conquered. 

"I  say  nothing  ill  of  him,"  said  the  latter;  "nevertheless  I  shall  speak  to  Mme. 
Potard  all  the  same." 

"  Still ! "  exclaimed  Marie.  "  Ah !  Father  Jean,  that  you  may  learn,  you  shall 
take  care  of  him  a  little  while  for  me." 

Handing  him  the  child,  she  added : 

"  Watch  him  carefully  until  I  return.  ...    I  shall  not  be  long." 

She  looked  at  him  pleasantly. 

"Now,  Father  .  .  .  Grandfather  Jean,  those  who  have  lost  him  have  not  wept 
with  joy  as  we  have  today,"  she  concluded. 

And  the  charming  girl  went  out,  leaving  her  child  with  the  rag-picker. 

He  watched  her  departure  with  a  comical  embarrassment. 

"  Well,  well,  Mam'zelle,"  said  he.    "She  does  with  me  as  she  likes." 

Accepting  the  inevitable,  he  went  on : 


222  TJie  Ttag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"I  suppose  I  must  lull  the  little  beggar.     Hasn't  he  a  sharp  eye?" 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  era  dling  the  child  in  his  arms. 

"Suppose  he  should  cry?  I  cannot  gi  ve  him  suck.  Suppose  I  try  to  sing  him 
to  sleep !  Ah !  yes,  but  my  voice  is  a  little  rusty." 

And  he  began  to  sing : 

"' Forever  wine!  forev'.  .  .  .  Ah!  not  that.  He  will  learn  that  only  too  soon. 
'Rock  a-bye,  baby,  upon  the  tree-top.  '  This  is  something  like  work.  .  .  .  Father 
in  earnest!  or  rather  grandfather,  Gran  dfalher  Jean,  as  my  daughter  said.  .  .  Ah  I 
ah!  my  young  rascal,  taking  a  nap  at  last!  I  will  lay  him  gently  on  mamma's 
bed.  ...  It  is  settled,  then.  Since  she  wants  him,  she  shall  keep  him,  watch 
him,  bring  him  up;  she  shall  pay  for  his  nursing,  cchcolir.g,  and  apprenticeship; 
he  is  well  off,  better  off  than  I  am;  she  shall  take  the  bread  out  of  her  mouth  and 
her  clothes  off  her  back  for  Monsieur,  pro  vided  he  turns  out  well." 

He  carried  the  child  into  the  small  room    and  cair.e  back. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "I  will  go  up  and  smoke  a  pipe  before  she  returns." 

He  went  behind  his  stairs  to  get  some  fresh  flowers,  which  he  put  in  the  place 
of  the  old  ones  on  Marie's  bureau,  and  t  hen  said,  as  he  left  the  room : 

"  I  will  leave  the  door  ajar,  go  that  1  may  hear  the  baby  better  if  he  should  cry." 

And  he  went  up  to  his  lodgings  radiant  with  happiness. 


The  Masquerade.  223 


CHAPTER  XI. 
THE  BARON'S  DOUBLE  STROKE. 

Father  Jean  had  scarcely  turned  his  heels  \\jhen  a  woman  hidden  under  a  black 
veil  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  th  e  stairs  and  entered  Marie's  room. 

"She  has  gone  out;   I  must  be  quick  1"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  hissing  voice. 

She  crossed  the  working-girl's  room,  entered  the  smaller  one,  came  back  with  the 
child  concealed  under  her  veil,  and  disappeared,  carrying  him  away  hastily. 

In  her  flight  she  made  the  stairs  creak,  and  the  noise  attracted  the  attention  of 
the  rag-picker,  Mho,  coming  out  of  his  den,  pushed  into  the  room  in  his  turn,  listen- 
ing and  saying: 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  I  hear  somebody  coming  up.  It  is  Mam'zelle  Marie,  no 
doubt.  I  will  stay  here.  If  she  does  not  find  me  at  my  post,  she  will  scold  me. 
No,  nobody,  I  must  have  been  mistaken." 

And  he  continued  to  smoke  for  a  few  moments. 

Then  suddenly  realizing  this  improprie  ty,  he  quickly  put  hib  pipe  back  in  his 
pocket. 

•'  The  devil  1 "  he  exclaimed ;  "  one  s  hould  not  smoke  here." 

He  went  to  look  down  the  stairway. 

•'Ah!  this  time  there  is  somebody,"  said  he.  "It  is  she.  .  .  .  No,  it  is  the 
modern." 

Camille  stood  before  him. 

"  Mademoiselle  Marie  is  not  at  home  ? "  asked  the  young  man,  a  little 
embarrassed. 

"  No,  Monsieur,  she  has  just  gone  out,"  answered  Jean,  testily. 

"To  remain  long?" 

"I  think  not." 

The  rag-picker,  after  twisting  his  beard  discontentedly,  grumbled  to  himself: 

"Come,  things  cannot  go  on  in  this  way.     I  must  speak  to  him." 

And  aloud : 

"If  you  wish  to  wait  for  her,  be  seate  d;  if  not,  I  will  transact  your  business  for 
you."  , 

"Thank  you,"  Camille  hastened  to  say,  "I  will  wait.  It  is  so  comfortable  in 
this  little  room.  It  is  to  me  a  sort  of  Jouvence  bath.  Here  I  breathe  I  know  not 


224  'The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 

what  perfume  of  virtue  that  calms  the  senses  and  invigorates  the  heart.  I  art 
born  again.  What  a  contrast  with  our  world !  There  proprieties  and  rights,  here 
nature  and  duties.  Ah !  here  is  real  life,  that  which  gives  a  good  conscience  .  .  . 
here  only  would  I  begin  mine  over  aga  in  if  I  bad  the  courage  ...  I  would  find 
at  last  what  I  seek,  rest  in  order,  esteem  in  love,  and  security  in  happiness.  But 
am  I  still  worthy  of  these?  ...  And  can  I  be  happy?  Everything  speaks  to  me 
of  her, — her  voice,  her  gesture,  her  virgin  grace,  an  omnipotent  magic  that  renews 
my  strength.  This  pure  life,  so  simple  and  so  full,  so  useful  to  others  and  to  self, 
this  vestal  lamp,  this  work-table,  this  shining  thimble,  this  little  needle  as  smooth 
as  her  fairy  hand  .  .  .  everything  enchants  me  and  draws  me  with  a  magnet's 
force." 

He  took  the  needle  out  of  the  cushion. 

"Poor  little  sword  that  serves  her  to  conquer  her  two  great  enemies,  —  poverty 
and  temptation.  What  valor!  The  moral  sense,  like  the  others,  grows  by  exer- 
cise. If  I  may  trust  appearances,  this  is  the  entire  support  of  her  chaste  and  sober 
life.  These  are  the  tools  of  her  toil,  the  weapons  of  her  struggle,  the  pledges  of 
her  victory,  the  witnesses  of  her  honor  ! " 

"  Oh  1  yes,  indeed,  I  guarantee  you  that ,"  said  Jean.  "  It  goes  from  morning  till 
evening  and  from  evening  till  morning  .  .  .  and  fast  enough  to  wear  the  flesh  off 
her  bones." 

"So  much  the  better!"  exclaimed  Camille,  joyfully. 

"  YOJ* laugh?"  asked  the  rag-picker. 

Camille  explained  himself. 

"I  laugh  and  weep  at  the  same  time,  you  give  me  so  much  joy  and  pain  at  once. 
Labor  is  the  guardian-angel  of  her  age,  Father  Jean.  It  is  necessary  .  .  .  but.  .  . 
not  too  much !  And  has  she  always  lived  thus  by  her  toil?" 

"And  on  what  else,  then,  if  you  please?  No  other  bread  is  eaten  here.  I  tell 
you  so  myself." 

"  Undoubtedly.  But  though  she  works  always  from  morning  till  evening,  as 
you  say,  she  does  not  always  work  from  evening  till  morning,  as  the  night  of  the 
ball  is  sufficient  to  show." 

"Ah!  yes,  once,  I  know,  and  only  once.  The  lesson  was  heeded.  That's  all  I 
can  say." 

"Indeed!  this  girl  is  an  exception,  a  treasure  in  a  garret." 

"Why  not?  I  have  found  one  in  my  basket.  .  .  Look  you,  Monsieur,  there  is 
good  and  evil  everywhere,  in  the  garret  as  well  as  on  the  first  floor." 

"  Yes,  all  is  not  gold  that  glitters,"  said  Camille. 

"  And  all  gold  does  not  glitter,"  said  Father  Jean.  "  There  are  none  better  than 
she  anywhere.  Good  and  beautiful  without  vanity,  doing  good  naturally,  as  her 
rose-tree  bears  its  roses.  Ah !  her  husband  will  not  be  unhappy." 

"Father  Jean,  you  are  talking  up  your  goods,"  observed  Camille,  smiling. 


The  Masquerade.  225 

Jean  stopped  for  a  second,  and  then  continued: 

"  There  is  no  need  to  sweeten  sugar.  And  if  I  were  young,  handsome,  and  rich 
.  .  .  But  to  the  point.  Monsieur  Henri  Berville.  this  very  morning  I  was  talking 
of  you  with  Mile.  Marie." 

"And  Marie  has  often  spoken  to  me  of  you,  Father  Jean,"  answered  Camille. 

"Ah!  She  has  spoken  to  you  of  me,  dear  child,"  repeated  the  rag-picker,  dis- 
armed. 

"Yes,  and  as  of  her  second  father." 

"She  did  not  lie,  Monsieur,  I  answer  for  it  ...  and,  you  see,  that  is  why  I  take 
the  liberty  .  .  .  the  .  .  .  since  we  are  alone  ...  to  ask  you  just  what  you  want 
with  her." 

Camille  looked  at  him  with  his  clear,  straightforward  eyes,  and  frankly  answered : 

"  And  because  of  that  respected  title  which  I  acknowledge  as  yours,  Father  Jean, 
I  shall  answer  you  frankly.  .  .  I  saw  Mile.  Marie  at  the  ball,  I  loved  her,  it  is  very 
simple ;  I  have  risked  death  for  her  sake ;  I  can  no  longer  live  without  her,  and  I 
am  going  to  break  off  iny  marriage  ".  .  . 

"To  marry  her?"  asked  Jean,  quickly. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  love  her,"  cried  Camille. 

"  Ah  !  ah!     And  you  would  marry  her,  if  you  did  not  love  her?" 

"  Perhaps,  Father  Jean ;  marriage,  they  say,  is  the  grave  of  love,  and  I  do  not 
wish  to  bury  mine." 

"There  you  are!  the  world  reversed,"  laughed  the  rag-picker;  "what  is  good 
with  us  is  bad  with  you." 

"As  you  say.  .  .  I  am  ready,  moreover,  to  make  any  sacrifice  for  her.  I  am  a 
man  of  honor.  .  .  .  Understand  me  well.  T  will  make  hers  an  honorable  lot,  free 
and  happy  for  the  rest  of  her  days." 

"That's  clear,"  rejoined  Jean.  "/<  is  your  will.  The  king  says:  It  is  our  will. 
Now  it  remains  to  find  out  Mile.  Marie's  will." 

"Undoubtedly,"  said  Camille,  "  and  that  is  exactly  what  I  have  come  today  to 
ask  her  in  order  to  arrive  at  a  conclusion.  What  I  know  so  far  is  that  she  has  re- 
fused all  my  offers,  and  that,  though  I  have  been  her  suitor  for  a  month,  I  am  no 
farther  advanced  than  on  the  first  day.  Visits,  promises,  presents,  speeches,  and 
letters, — I  have  used  everything  and  for  nought." 

"  That  astonishes  you ?  "  asked  Father  Jean.     "  In  this  I  recognize  her  perfectly." 

"  Here  then  at  last  is  one  who  does  not  wish  to  sell  herself,"  murmured  Camille, 
"unless  she  values  herself  at  a  higher  figure  than  has  been  offered.  There  have 
been  such  cases,  hey,  old  sage?" 

"Ah!  what's  that  you  say?"  muttered  the  rag-picker.  "Pardon  me,  Monsieur, 
you  mistake  white  for  black.  .  .  And  look  out  that  you  don't  do  worse.  Without 
throwing  her  at  your  head,  she  is  as  good  as  you  are  .  .  .  and  in  your  place".  .  . 

He  paused,  and  then  resumed  with  growing  force  and  indignation  : 


226  The  Sag-Picker  of  Parts. 

"But  you  have  admitted  that  you  do  not  want  her  for  a  wife.  You,  in  your 
world,  do  not  marry  when  you  love;  you  want  her,  then,  simply  for  pastime,  to 
make  her  a  ruined  girl  like  the  others.  It  woul  d  be  a  pity  to  make  an  exception. 
You  call  that  an  honorable  lot.  Indeed  I  It  is  not  a  virtuous  one.  Frankly,  now, 
would  you  make  such  an  offer  to  a  girl  of  your  own  station?  .  .  .  Good  for  a 
working-girl!  She  cannot  rise  to  you;  you  descend  to  her.  You  do  her  the  honor 
to  dishonor  her.  Much  obliged!  Since  we  have  one  that  is  good,  let  us  leave  her 
as  she  is,  if  you  please.  You  will  not  die  in  consequence.  Come,  young  man,  be 
a  little  upright  1  You  have  carriages,  and  we  have  no  shoes;  you  have  fine  horses, 
and  we  have  no  beds ;  you  have  dogs  fed  on  meat,  and  we  have  no  bread.  .  .  In 
short,  you  have  everything  and  we  nothing.  .  .  And  you  want  also  this  nothing 
that  is  left  to  us,  our  sole  and  only  possession,  honor.  Do  not  be  so  greedy !  That 
will  not  pass  from  us,  I  assure  you ;  it  is  my  right  and  my  duty  to  keep  it,  you  see. 
I  was  unable  to  save  the  father,  but  I  swore  to  guard  the  daughter,  the  child  of  a 
poor  man  who  died  in  your  service." 

Camille  started  with  surprise,  while  Jean  continued : 

"  Did  you  ever  think  of  aiding  her  before  you  saw  her?  No.  Well,  then,  do 
not  think  of  it  now  in  order  to  ruin  her.  Far  from  the  eyes,  far  from  the  heart. 
See  her  no  more.  There  are  plenty  of  others,  unfortunately,  who  ask  nothing  bet- 
ter than  to  be  yours.  I  know  very  well  of  course  that  it  is  what  you  cannot  have 
that  you  want.  You  are  all  like  that.  You  want  her,  poverty  aiding,  for  a  day,  a 
month,  a  year.  You  pay  by  the  hour  .  .  .  when  you  pay  at  all.  And  then  become 
what  she  may!  Abandoned,  with  accounts  square  .  .  .  with  shame  .  .  .  and 
crime  to  hide  it.  At  that  price  you  are  to  be  guarded.  Jean's  word  for  it,  the 
child  of  your  man  of  toil  will  not  be  your  '  daughter  of  joy.'  No,  Marie  Didier 
cannot  be  your  wife ;  she  shall  not  be  your  mistress.  I  tell  you  that  I  will  not 
have  it  so;  that  she  will  not  have  it  so ;  that  neither  father  nor  mother,  nor  God 
nor  Devil,  nor  Jean,  will  have  it  so.  As  long  as  there  is  any  breath  left  in  my  body, 
that  shall  not  be." 

"Father  Jean,  you  speak  somewhat  bitterly,"  said  Camille,  not  knowing  what 
to  answer,  and  seriously  shaken  by  this  revelation  of  popular  honesty. 

"Well,  what  do  you  expect?"  concluded  Jean,  "I  am  not  all  sugar  as  she  is,  but 
ill-tempered  enough  to  defend  her.  Believe  me,  Monsieur  Camille,  change  your 
intentions,  or  leave  her  as  she  is  ...  and  let  us  be  good  friends." 

He  interrupted  himself.  Marie  had  just  entered  suddenly,  without  noticing  the 
young  man's  presence. 

"Father  Jean!  I  have  the  money!"  she  exclaimed,  joyfully.  "But  I  had  to 
pawn  everything,  —  watch  and  ring." 

Then,  noticing  Camille,  she  said :  "  Ah !  Monsieur  Berville ! "  and  maintained  a 
confused  silence. 

"Now  I  am  in  the  way,"  said  Jean,  aside.    "I  must  go  out,  but  not  relax  my 


TJie  Masquerade.  227 

watch.     They  will  come  to  an  understanding  better  alone  .  .  .  and  I  will  listen  to 
everything  as  I  smoke  my  pipe.  .  .     What  is  said  is  said,"  said  he  to  Camille. 
He  left  the  room,  and  remained  listening  on  the  landing. 
The  conversation  was  taken  up  again  by  the  young  people. 
"I  was  waiting  for  you,  Mademoiselle,"  said  Camille,  "for  I  must  speak  to  you 
definitively  today,  and  you  must  give  me  a  final  answer.     Time  presses." 
Taking  her  by  the  hand  and  leading  her  before  her  mirror,  he  continued : 
"  Tell  me  if  this  beauty,  once  seen  by  a  man's  eye,  can  ever  be  effaced  from  his 
heart." 

Marie,  confused,  went  away  from  the  mirror. 

"Yes,  Monsieur,  as  from  this  glass,"  she  answered. 

"This  glass  has  no  heart,  and  you  have  given  me  one  which  will  always  retain 
your  image,  whatever  happens,"  declared  Camille,  with  fire.  "I  love  you,  Marie, 
as  I  have  often  told  you  already,  as  I  have  never  loved  and  shall  never  love  any 
one  else  ....  with  a  love  which  one  feels  but  once  in  his  life  and  which  fixes  it. 
To  love  you  as  you  deserve,  Marie,  I  have  sacrificed  my  tastes,  my  pleasures;  you 
know  it  ...  and  I  want  to  sacrifice  even  my  marriage  in  order  to  be  loved." 
.  "  Oh !  Monsieur,  stop,"  said  Marie,  with  embarrassment. 

"I  am  frank  with  you,"  said  the  young  man,  becoming  more  and  more  urgent. 
"  Be  so  with  me.  I  may  say  that  you  have  restored  me  my  life.  I  owe  it  to  you, 
I  give  it  to  you.  I  want  to  live  for  you  and  with  you  ....  could  I  live  without 
you?  We  are  no  longer  children;  we  are  no  longer  at  the  age  of  twenty,  or  at 
least  I  am  not.  On  your  reply  depends  our  whole  future.  Yes,  I  will  break  every 
tie  for  you  alone,  Marie ;  and  though  I  love  you  too  well  to  marry  you,  to  be  your 
legal  master,  at  least  I  swear  that  I  will  never  marry  another.  Those  are  my  in- 
tentions. What  are  yours?  Answer." 

"I  shall  never  be  yours,"  said  the  young  girl,  simply  and  resolutely. 

"Never!  .  .  .  And  why?  ....  Do  I,  then,  inspire  you  with  aversion?"  cried 
Camille. 

"  You  do  not  think  so,"  said  Marie,  gently. 

"Do  you  love  another  more  fortunate  than  I?" 

"Oh!  you  could  not  believe  it." 

"Why,  then?    Tell  me,"  insisted  Camille,  sorrowfully. 

"I  will  be  as  frank  as  you,  Monsieur  Camille,"  said  Marie;  "let  us  drop  the 
matter  forever.  You  are  too  far  above  me  .  .  .  and  I  cannot "... 

Jean  upon  the  landing  made  a  gesture  of  approval,  as  he  heard  this  declaration. 

"  Do  not  finish.  .  .  I  understand,"  said  Camille  with  a  bitterness  that  was  full 
of  scepticism. 

And  to  himself  he  added : 

"Indeed!  She  would  like  even  more  than  this  old  man.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  am  mis- 
taken in  her  when  I  speak  to  her  only  of  love  and  happiness.  It  is  not  enough  to 


228  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

sacrifice  present  land  future  to  her,  to  devote  to  her  my  entire  life,  to  renounce 
every  other  passion,  everything  else  that  I  possess,  for  her.  She  aspires  to  son>e- 
thing  higher.  I  Understand,  I  understand  at  last.  All  this  resistance  is  made 
from  interest  and  calculation ".  .  . 

And  carried  away  by  this  thought,  the  product  of  his  blase  mind  rather  than  his 
heart,  he  concluded : 

"You  refuse  because  you  wish  to  be  my  wife." 

"Your  wife  1     I!"  cried  Marie,  trembling. 

"Yes,  the  heart  is  of  little  consequence  to  you,"  went  on  Camille,  "provided  you 
have  the  rank.  Ah !  Marie,  my  foolish  darling,  the  satisfaction  of  that  ambition 
will  bring  you  neither  esteem  nor  love." 

"Ah!    Monsieur  Camille,  do  you  believe  what  you  say?"  asked  Marie. 

"I  believe  it." 

"You  believe  it?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Camille,  becoming  excited  by  his  suspicion. 

"You  believe  it!  Well,  I  am  yours,  Camille!  And  let  your  conscience  judge 
me  as  my  own  !  Neither  your  name,  nor  your  rank,  nor  your  possessions,  Camille, 
nothing  of  you  but  yourself." 

Jean  made  a  gesture  of  despair  on  his  landing,  and  smashed  his  pipe  against  the 
wall,  still  listening  in  alarm  and  indignation. 

"What  do  you  say,  Marie?"  asked  Camille,  astounded. 

"I  say  that  I  love  you,"  answered  Marie,  passionately,  "that  I  love  you  for  your- 
self, for  yourself  alone.  .  .  Forgive  me,  Monsieur,  for  preferring  your  love  to  my 
honor ! " 

She  fell  upon  her  knees,  her  face  covered  with  her  hands. 

Camille,  raising  her  enthusiastically,  gave  utterance  to  his  heart  in  hig 
intoxication : 

"  Ah !  that  is  your  thought,  noble  girl !  Well,  no,  Marie,  it  shall  not  be  so.  ... 
you  shall  be  my  wife,  my  legitimate  wife,  do  you  hear  ?  In  giving  me  all  rights, 
you  impose  upon  me  all  duties.  You  elevate  my  heart  to  the  level  of  your  own ; 
you  make  me  worthy  of  you.  I  loved  you  for  your  beauty,  I  honor  you  for  your 
integrity.  I  unite  myself  to  you,  adorably  unselfish  girl ;  I  restore  you  the  honor 
which  you  sacrifice  for  me.  ...  I  too  am  yours  now.  My  father's  wealth,  and 
more,  my  mother's  name,  are  all  for  you,  my  betrothed." 

Taking  her  hand,  he  continued : 

"  Your  hand ;  no  one  but  you  shall  have  this  ring,  pledge  of  my  love  and  of  my 
oath.  For  you,  then,  the  wedding  robes  that  were  being  made  for  the  other.  Yes, 
for  you,  Madame,  for  henceforth,  I  swear,  Marie  Didier  shall  be  Madame  Berville." 

Jean  entered  in  the  meantime,  and  saw  them  entwined  in  each  other's  arms. 

"All  right!"  he  cried.  "That's  the  way  to  talk.  With  that  understanding  I 
agree;  I  make  no  further  opposition.  Father  Jean  gives  his  consent,  Monsieur 


The  Masquerade.  229 

Camilla.  Go  get  that  of  your  relatives.  .  .  You  have  behaved  handsomely.  Your 
intentions  are  honorable,  and  happiness  will  result.  Three  happy  ...  at  least  I 
hope  so.  Ah  !  honesty  will  always  be  the  best  policy.  For  life  or  death,  Monsieur 
Camille." 

Camille  gave  his  hand  to  Jean,  kissed  Marie's  hands,  and  went  out,  escorted  by 
her  to  the  door. 

Marie  returned  to  Jean. 

"  Oh  !  how  happy  I  am !  "  said  she.  "  He  makes  me  believe  all  that  he  says  and 
wish  all  that  he  wishes.  My  God !  he  makes  me  mad  with  joy.  I  thank  you. 
Father  Jean,  let  me  embrace  you  !  " 

She  embraced  Jean,  and  then  turned  toward  the  adjoining  room. 

"  Ah !  poor  child,  love  has  caused  him  to  be  forgotten.  He  is  only  my  second 
thought  now.  I  must  return  him  to  the  nurse  with  the  money." 

She  went  into  the  room  and  returned  in  bewilderment. 

"  Ah  1  my  child !  my  child  !  where  is  my  child  ?    Jean,  my  child  ?  " 

"What?"  exclaimed  Jean,  in  astonishment. 

He,  in  turn,  entered  the  room. 

"  Nothing  1     Stolen  I     No,  taken  back  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

A  loud  noise  of  footsteps  was  heard  on  the  stairs,  approaching  Marie's  rooms, 
and  soon  the  door  was  thrown  open  violently,  revealing  officers  in  citizens'  dress 
and  in  uniform,  preceded  by  a  commissary  of  police.  Camille  reappeared  behind 
them  in  a  state  of  anxiety. 

"Marie  Didier,"  said  the  commissary,  extending  his  arm  toward  her,  "you  are 
accused  of  infanticide." 

Jean  too  reappeared,  entirely  upset. 

"  I ! "  cried  Marie,  thunderstruck. 

The  commissary  took  her  by  the  arm  and  pushed  her  toward  his  pack  of  police- 
men, saying : 

"Your  child  has  been  found  dead  in  a  neighboring  well.  .  .    I  arrest  you." 

"Oh  !"  exclaimed  Marie,  with  a  cry  of  horror  and  falling  backwards. 

"  Marie  I  "  cried  Camille,  petrified. 

Jean  got  quickly  down  beside  the  fa  in  ting  young  girl  and  raised  her  head  upon 
his  knees  in  mortal  anguish. 

"  My  daughter,"  he  called. 

The  commissary  made  a  sign  to  his  subordinates  to  carry  Marie  away,  which 
was  done  in  spite  of  Camille's  opposition  and  Jean's  resistance. 


230  Tlie  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  CROWD. 

When  Canaille  and  Jean  had  been  released  by  the  officers  who  had  held  them  in 
restraint  dnring  the  removal  of  Marie,  they  in  turn  rushed  out  into  the  neighbor- 
hood, which  was  already  in  a  state  of  agitation  over  the  arrest. 

The  commissary  of  judicial  delegations,  M.  Dubreuil,  had  taken  the  arrest  upon 
himself  to  handsel  his  recent  promotion,  for  which  he  was  indebted  to  the  govern- 
ment of  the  Republic. 

The  news  of  the  infanticide  had  spread  in  all  directions  with  the  rapidity  of  a 
flash  of  powder.  All  the  neighbors  were  at  their  windows  or  doors.  Groups 
formed,  loudly  discussing;  the  women,  enraged  at  the  crime  and  at  Marie's  beauty, 
shouting  for  death,  wanting  the  guilty  one  straightway  cut  to  pieces;  the  men, 
calmer  and  under  the  influence  of  her  charm,  saying:  "Bahl  it's  not  our  affair," 
or  else:  "Can  one  ever  tell?  We  shall  see  later.  Justice  will  inquire  into  the 
matter." 

Marie,  in  a  semi-swoon,  had  crossed  the  Rue  Sainte-Marguerite  and  was  going 
down  the  Faubourg  Saint-Antoine,  hurried  along  at  full  speed  by  the  officers,  who 
had  to  defend  their  prey  against  the  insults  and  threats  of  mothers  who  showed 
beak  and  claws,  at  once  taking  the  accusation  for  the  fact  and  governed  by  passion 
instead  of  reason. 

"  She  has  killed  her  child  1 "  This  phrase  flew  around  her,  repeated  from  mouth 
to  mouth,  preceding  her,  following  her,  escorting  her,  causing  all  heads  to  turn  and 
all  eyes  to  glare  upon  her. 

"  Oh !  the  coward  I "  cried  a  woman ;  "  I  have  brought  up  seven,  and  not  my  own 
either." 

"  I  have  had  five,  wretch,"  shouted  another,  "  all  killed  by  war  or  hunger,  but 
not  one  by  me ! " 

Poor  Marie  1  She  bent  her  head  under  this  undeserved  cursing,  calling  death  to 
her  aid  and  not  believing  it  possible  to  survive  this  atrocious  denunciation  by  a 
blinded  aud  pitiless  mob. 

Lost  in  the  flood  of  the  curious,  hidden  in  the  rear  of  the  throng,  but  raising 
themselves  up  now  and  then  in  order  to  lose  nothing  of  the  spectacle,  a  man 
masked  with  a  comforter  and  a  woman  entirely  covered  with  a  thick  black  veil, 


The  Masquerade.  231 

gliding  like  shadows  by  the  side  of  the  houses,  had  witnessed  all  the  circumstances 
of  the  arrest,  watching  police,  capture,  and  people. 

Finally  they  stopped  as  if  by  agreemen  t  at  the  corner  of  a  small  street. 

"Well,  are  you  satisfied  now?"  said  the  woman,  loftily. 

For  sole  reply  the  man  slipped  a  small  package  of  bluish  paper's  into  her  hand 
and  made  her  a  sign  to  leave  him. 

"  Ah  I  thank  you,"  said  she,  with  her  false  smile.  "  This  is  the  right  amount,  isn't 
it?  Twenty  thousand?  Not  that  I  doubt;  only  an  error  is  easily  made  with 
these  bits  of  paper." 

Then,  after  a  pause,  she  continued  in  a  very  low  voice : 

"Saving  errors.  I  am  sure  that  Monsieur  the  baron  would  rectify  the  mistake, 
if  one  little  blue  paper  should  be  lacking.  He  would  not  want  to  ruin  a  poor  wo- 
man like  myself.  .  .  .  Especially  as  "... 

She  finished  her  phrase  mentally  thus : 

"  I  now  have  the  means  of  defence." 

She  was  about  to  resume  her  insinuating  remarks. 

"  Enough,"  said  the  man,  in  a  tone  of  decision.  "  Verify  the  amount,  pocket  it, 
and  be  off." 

She  took  the  amount  for  granted,  slipped  the  package  into  her  pocket,  and  said, 
to  lay  stress  upon  this  delicate  proceeding: 

"  One  must  have  confidence  in  this  world.  My  God  1  what  should  we  do  without 
it?" 

And,  bowing  very  humbly,  she  disappeared,  and  the  man  did  the  same. 

Meanwhile  Jean  and  Camille,  who  had  started  at  full  speed,  were  drawing  near 
Marie.  They  caught  up  with  her  on  the  run,  as  the  officers  stopped  before  a 
blockade  of  carriages  and  spectators.  The  crowd  had  grown  like  a  rolling  snow- 
ball as  it  moved  along,  turning  into  an  avalanche  and  raising  th«  old  and  ever  new 
cry: 

"  Away  with  her  1 " 

An  empty  cab  stood  a  few  steps  away.  The  commissary  of  police,  who  was 
walking  in  advance,  summoned  it  and  succeeded  with  great  difficulty  in  getting  in. 
The  crowd  closed  up  behind  him,  barring  the  way  against  Marie  and  the  disbanded 
officers. 

At  first  the  presence  of  the  magistrate  had  held  this  furious  mob  in  check,  even 
the  women,  which  is  not  easy  when  the  maternal  instinct  is  aroused ;  but  now  the 
officers,  deprived  of  their  chief,  were  obliged  to  release  Marie  in  the  middle  of  a 
pitiless  circle  pressing  in  to  stifle  her. 

Camille,  not  as  strong  as  Father  Jean,  but  quicker,  was  the  first  to  penetrate  the 
crowd  and  shield  the  young  girl. 

"AhJ  her  lover,"  .squeaked  a  woman's  voice.  "Mossieu  came  to  see  her  every 
day," 


232  The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 

This  denunciation  aggravated  the  anger  of  the  assailants,  and,  there  being  "a 
Mossieu"  in  the  case,  the  men  too  joined  in.  Insults  rained,  and  even  fists  were 
shaken ;  the  officers  were  submerged  in  the  ever-rising  flood. 

Already  a  hand  was  raised  against  the  victim. 

"  Touch  her  not,  or  I  will  kill  you,"  suddenly  roared  a  voice  of  thunder. 

And  Jean  brushed  aside,  hustled,  and  upset  the  men  and  women  in  his  path, 
throwing  down  or  trampling  upon  those  who  resisted. 

"  It  is  her  father,"  said  a  man.     "  This  is  his  affair.     Leave  it  to  him." 

This  \vordfather,  pronounced  by  the  man,  neutralized  the  effect  produced  by  the 
word  lover  uttered  by  the  woman.  Crowds  are  subject  to  these  abrupt  changes  of 
the  moral  sense. 

"Yes,  she  is  my  daughter;  innocent,  and  so  is  he,"  cried  Father  Jean. 

And  after  a  last  push,  he  seized  Marie,  carrying  her  away  like  a  feather  in  his 
vigorous  arms,  and  deposited  her  safely  in  the  carriage,  whose  doors  closed  upon 
her. 

"Palace  of  Justice;  Delegations!"  cried  the  commissary,  putting  his  head  out 
of  the  window  and  then  quickly  lifting  the  glass  again. 

The  carriage  started,  and  was  soon  moving  rapidly. 

"  Let  us  follow  them,"  cried  Camille,  liberated  by  Father  Jean's  saving  word. 

And  leaping  with  him  into  a  cab,  he  shouted  to  the  driver : 

"  Follow !    You  shall  have  a  generous  fee," 


The  Masquerade.  233 


CHAPTER  XIIL 

AT  THE  DELEGATIONS. 

The  commissary  of  police,  having  recovered  from  the  shock  of  this  exciting  ar- 
rest, reentered  his  office  and  began  to  draw  up  his  official  report  with  the  tranquil 
indifference  usual  to  his  function. 

Marie  was  brought  in  between  two  officers,  while  Camille  and  Jean,  at  a  sign 
from  the  magistrate,  sat  down  at  the  other  end  of  the  room  as  witnesses. 

"Well,  do  you  confess?"  he  first  asked  the  accused. 

The  young  girl  made  a  gesture  of  horror. 

"  Indeed,  you  deny.    Of  course." 

Camille  intervened. 

"  Mademoiselle  is  not  guilty,"  said  he,  emphatically. 

"  Never  I "  added  Jean,  in  confirmation. 

The  commissary  imposed  silence  upon  them,  saying : 

"  Very  well.  We  will  talk  together  directly.  .  .  .  Marie  Didier,  you  have  had 
this  child  about  a  month,  haven't  you?" 

"  Yes,  Monsieur,  at  my  rooms." 

"  And  he  is  not  yours  ?  " 

"  No,  Monsieur." 

"You  deny  again;  very  well;  we  will  pass  on." 

The  commissary  consulted  his  notes. 

"  You  have  sent  the  little  one  to  a  nurse.  Then,  there  being  no  money,  he  has 
been  returned  to  you,  and  you  have ".  .  .  . 

"Oh!  Monsieur".  .  .  . 

Jean  and  Camille  could  hardly  contain  themselves.  Nevertheless,  confiding  in 
Marie's  innocence  and  the  hope  of  her  justification,  they  mastered  their  indignation. 

The  French  Themis  employs  theatrical  effects  and  torture ;  the  magistrate  is  a 
combination  of  actor  and  inquisitor. 

The  commissary  suddenly  straightened  up  before  Marie,  and,  in  the  bullying 
style  of  a  policeman,  said  to  her  rudely: 

"  You  lie.  The  story  of  the  found  child  is  a  gross  fabrication.  You  had  rela- 
tions with  a  young  man.  This  child  was  born  of  your  misconduct;  you  placed 
it  with  a  nurse.  Then,  finding  it  a  burden,  you  ceased  to  pay  for  the  nursing.  It 


234  The  Rag-Pickvr  of  Paris. 

was  returned  to  you,  and  you  threw  it  into  the  well  to  be  rid  of  it.  Your  lover,  if 
not  your  accomplice,  is  present  here.  And  there  lies  your  victim  to  accuie  you. 
Stay, look  1 " 

Aud  the  magistrate,  eyeing  her  steadily,  lifted  a  napkin  which  hid  the  body  of  a 
drowned  child,  with  features  swollen  and  blue. 

There  it  lay, — the  fresh,  pink-cheeked,  bright-eyed  child  which  she  had  adopted 
as  her  own. 

She  could  not  endure  this  frightful  spectacle. 

"Oh  1  I  shall  go  mad,"  she  cried,  covering  her  eyes  with  her  hands. 

"A  thousand  thunders  1 "  shouted  Jean;  "  and  this  is  justice ! " 

"  Monsieur ! "  exclaimed  Camille,  in  an  almost  threatening  tone. 

"your  terror  confesses  at  last,"  said  the  magistrate,  pitilessly  pursuing  his  con- 
frontation and  mistaking  grief  for  remorse. 

"No,  no,"  said  Marie,  in  despair,  "I  did  not  do  it." 

"  Still  denying !     Take  her  away,"  ordered  the  commissary. 

The  officers  obeyed  this  peremptory  order  of  their  chief,  who,  detaining  Jean 
and  Camille,  said  to  them : 

"Now  we  will  talk." 

And  he  noted  in  detail  their  names,  ages,  and  occupations,  —  their  complete  civil 
status,  —  and  then,  in  conclusion,  asked  Jean : 

"You  are,  what  shall  I  call  you?  .  .  .  the  protector  of  the  accused?" 

Father  Jean,  wounded  by  this  equivocal  phrase,  protested  and  tried  to  reply, 
but  the  commissary  interrupted  him  in  order  to  question  Camille. 

"And  you  are  not  Marie  Didier's  lover  or  the  father  of  this  child?"  said  he, 
with  cold  irony. 

"Monsieur,"  cried  Camille,  "you  are  wrong,  utterly  wrong,  in  this  unfortunate 
affair.  I  swear  to  you  that  Mile.  Didier  is  innocent,  and  that  I  am  not  her  lover." 

"Well,  here's  another,"  said  the  commissary,  tranquilly.  "That  will  do;  you 
will  be  summoned  if  there  is  occasion  and  when  there  is  occasion.  Good  day, 
gentlemen." 

"  Here's  another  I "  This  last  phrase  struck  Camille  to  the  heart,  and  a  fit  of 
terrible  anger  lifted  him  from  his  bench  in  rebellion,  crying: 

" Monsieur  1  Monsieur!     You  insult  her,  you ".  .  . 

And  he  went  out,  lest  he  might  return  the  magistrate's  words : 

"You  lie!" 

But  Father  Jean,  remaining  seated,  did  not  stir,  suddenly  insensible  to  what 
was  being  done  and  said  around  him. 

He  muttered  confused  words  between  his  teeth. 

"Of  what  are  you  thinking?"  asked  M.  Dubreuil.     "Go  out." 

"Eh?"  exclaimed  the  rag-picker,  raising  hjs  head.  "Oh,  to  be  sure!  I  must 
go  out.  Good  afterupon,  Monsieur." 


The  Masquerade.  235 

On  the  threshold  he  turned  back  to  say : 

"You  hold  the  most  honest  girl  in  the  world  as  guilty.  But  it  is  only  for  a 
short  time.  You  will  hear  from  me  soon." 

Then  he  added  with  emotion  : 

"  Could  not  her  old  Father  Jean  embrace  her  ?  " 

"  No !  .  .  .  she  will  be  kept  in  secret  confinement,"  answered  the  magistrate. 

Jean  went  out  with  an  air  of  resignation,  and  found  Camille  pacing  up  and 
down  the  street. 

"  They  keep  her,"  said  Jean. 

"  Well,"  exclaimed  he,  beside  himself,  "  let  us  free  her  by  force." 

"No,  no  madness.  Leave  it  to  me,"  answered  Jean.  "  She  shall  not  stay  there 
long,  believe  me.  .  .  .  Come  1  I  have  an  idea  of  my  own." 


236  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

I  FATHER  JEAN'S  IDEA. 

In  the  Quartier  du  Marais,  as  it  is  appropriately  named,  Mme.  Potard,  alias  Ga- 
vard,  her  ban  broken  but  not  her  patronage,  had  reestablished  her  doubtful  busi- 
ness as  a  midwife,  committing  abortion  and  presiding  at  births  according  to 
circumstances,  with  as  little  conscience  as  before,  but  with  more  science,  prudence, 
and  cunning,  saying  to  herself :  "  One  must  live,"  and  finding  her  life  in  the  death 
of  babies,  as  Jean  found  his  in  rags;  persuaded  that  this  was  really  natural,  but 
passing  on  to  each  new  misdeed  between  the  articles  of  the  Code,  with  art  and 
without  suffering,  a  first  lesson,  it  is  said,  being  sufficient  for  the  sage  ....  and 
for  the  midwife  (sage-fenane).  She  had  gained  with  age. 

Her  retirement  had  borne  its  fruits.  Mme.  Gavard,  first-class  midwife,  had  be- 
come Mme.  Potard,  "the  best  of  midwives,"  the  height  of  the  art,  a  difficult  art  in 
Paris,  where  there  are  as  many  nurses  as  mothers,  perhaps  more ;  one  must  live, 
nevertheless. 

Mme.  Potard  had  had  a  somewhat  easier  day  than  usual.  She  strutted  about  in 
her  reception-room,  furnished  with  tables ,  chairs  covered  with  haircloth  as  hard  as 
herself,  a  book-case,  and  a  secretary,  all  looking  dismal  and  doubtful,  and  com- 
pleted by  a  poorly-equipped  pharmacy  secured  with  a  double  lock,  a  veritable  in- 
terior of  a  "maker  of  angels." 

"What  a  profession  is  ours  I"  she  murmured,  stretching  out  before  her  fire  with 
an  air  of  relaxation;  "a  dog's  life,  without  rest  or  thanks.  One  rises,  ding !  a  de- 
livery; one  wishes  to  eat  breakfast  or  dinner,  ding  1  ding  !  another  affair,  a  virtue 
to  be  restored ;  but  one  never  knows  with  whom  she  is  dealing,  whether  the  police 
or  a  patron.  That  is  the  question.  And  there  is  no  time  to  reflect ;  ding  1  ding  1 
ever  the  bell  is  ringing ;  one  hopes  to  eat  supper,  not  having  dined,  but  never  in 
life;  Madame  So-and-So  believes  that  she  is  about  to  be  delivered:  Madame  Some- 
body-else that  her  milk  is  going  to  fail ;  this  one  says  that  her  baby  is  getting  as 
red  as  a  lobster ;  that  one  that  hers  is  turning  as  pale  as  a  whiting.  A  continual 
nuisance.  At  last  one  goes  to  bed,  ding!  ding!  ding  I  a  miscarriage  1 " 

And  poor  Mme.  Potard,  having  thus  railed  against  fate,  settled  down  to  a  rest 
so  well  deserved. 

Suddenly  she  drew  from  her  pocket  a  package  of  bank-notes  and  began  to  count 


The  Masquerade.  237 

"  twenty  .  .  .  that's  right.  I  dreamed  of  a  spider  last  night.  Ah  1  if  I  could 
find  the  other  ten  now,  that  would  make  thirty  ...  a  nice  competence.  ...  I 
could  retire  from  business  straightway." 

She  rose. 

"I  must  not  lose  these  at  any  rate,"  she  continued.     "These  cost  me  more." 

Then,  looking  at  the  money,  she  continued  : 

"  To  think  that  one  does  everything  for  this,  no  matter  what  his  station ;  that 
everybody,  from  the  top  of  the  stairs  to  the  bottom,  rises  for  this,  struggles,  cheats, 
steals,  and  kills  for  this;  that  all  without  exception,  rich  and  poor,  young  and  old, 
men  and  women,  love,  serve,  and  pray  to  this.  Ah  I  it  is  the  God  of  us  all." 

She  placed  her  notes  in  her  secretary,  saluting  them  with  pious  reverence,  and 
under  the  impulse  of  her  native  devotion  she  recited  her  prayer  with  a  fervor 
worthy  of  that  Paradise  of  which  she  was  the  purveyor. 

"Our  Father  who  art  in  the  Bank  I  certified  be  thy  name;  thy  profits  come ;  thy 
notes  be  legal  tender  on  the  Stock  Exchange  as  well  as  at  the  Bank  1  Give  us  this 
day  our  daily  interest  I  Send  us  our  receipts  as  we  send  receipts  to  those  who  have 
paid  us  !  Lead  us  not  into  prison,  and  deliver  us  from  the  baron  1  Amen  1 " 

She  closed  her  secretary  and  rose  again  precipitately. 

Her  servant  entered. 

"  Madame,"  said  the  latter,  "  some  one  wishes  to  see  you  on  business." 

Mme.  Potard  took  the  key  from  her  secretary,  and  said  in  a  loud  voice : 

"  Show  him  in." 

Then  aside: 

"Business  is  what  one  makes  it.  It  is  small  only  with  those  who  have  weak 
heads." 

The  servant  introduced  a  man  of  about  sixty  years,  with  a  gray  beard,  dressed 
in  his  Sunday  clothes,  and  rather  shabby  at  that. 

It  was  Father  Jean. 

He  bowed  to  the  midwife,  and  inquired : 

"Madame  Potard,  if  you  please?" 

"That  is  my  name,  Monsieur,"  she  answered,  somewhat  disdainfully,  in  spite  of 
t*he  principle  which  she  had  just  enunciated. 

Jean  looked  at  the  servant. 

"Madame  Potard,"  he  said,  "I  should  like  to  talk  with  you  privately." 

The  servant  went  out. 

"  Ah  I  we  are  alone  now,"  said  Mme.  Potard.     "What  service  can  I  do  you?" 

"  I  do  not  come  to  ask  a  service  of  you,"  said  Jean,  slowly,  weighing  each  of  hia 
words.  "On  the  contrary,  I  come  to  render  you  one." 

"  Me  ?  "  exclaimed  Mme.  Potard,  distrustfully. 

•'You,"  affirmed  Jean. 

The  midwife  began  to  reflect,  and  felt  a  joy  which  she  suppressed  as  the  thought 
struck  her : 


238  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"  Ah !  the  lost  notes,  perhaps  ?  " 

Jean,  who  did  not  lose  sight  of  the  play  of  her  features,  settled  her  with  one 
question : 

"  Have  you  not  lost  something?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Mme.  Potard,  eagerly;  "bank-notes,  ten,  ten  thousand  francs  .... 
recovered?  Oh,  Lord!  you  have  found  them,  Monsieur?" 

"Yes,  Madame." 

"What  good  luck  I    Where  are  they?  .  .  .     They  are  mine." 

And,  seeing  that  Jean  made  no  move,  Mme.  Potard  added : 

"  Return  them  to  me." 

"One  moment,"  rejoined  the  rag-picker,  with  his  imperturbable  calmness. 

Mme.  Potard  became  anxious. 

"You  have  really  fouud  tharn,  havan't  you?"  she  asked,  stamping  with  impa- 
tience. 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Jean. 

The  midwife  tapped  her  forehead  and  said  to  herself  with  profound  faith,  think- 
ing of  her  dream : 

"  Ah  1  the  spider,  it  was  sure." 

And  drawing  nearer  to  Jean,  she  said: 

"  Let  me  see." 

"Look!"  said  the  rag-picker,  taking  the  notes  from  the  pocket-book  which  had 
formerly  belonged  to  Jacques  Didier. 

"  The  very  ones,"  cried  Mme.  Potard,  brightening  at  the  sight  of  the  notes.  "  T 
am  not  bewitched !  Oh !  upon  my  word,  I  recognize  them." 

And  holding  out  her  hand,  she  continued  with  beaming  eyes :  • 

"Return  them,  then." 

"Not  so  fast,  Madame,"  said  Jean. 

The  midwife  replied,  with  a  shade  of  bitterness : 

"  They  are  mine,  I  tell  you,  and  well-earned.  .  .    I  pray  you,  give  them  to  me.' 

"  Directly,"  answered  Jean. 

Mme.  Potard  looked  at  him  first  in  astonishment  and  then  cunningly ;  at  last  shfe 
cried  rudely : 

"Ah!  I  understand;  you  want  to  be  sure  first;  I  must  tell  you  the  place,  time, 
and  all.  Well,  that's  right.  I  lost  them  on  the  night  of  Mardi-Gras,  as  the  poster 
states.  You  must  have  found  them  in  the  Rue  Sainte-Marguerite,  at  the  corner  of 
the  Faubourg  Saint- Antoine." 

"  Precisely." 

"  Well,  then.  .  .  .    But  my  head  is  fairly  swimming  with  joy.     I  forgot  .  .  . 
there  is  a  reward  ...  a  handsome  reward." 

"Handsome!"  said  Jean.     "I  really  hope  so." 

Mme.  Potard  went  to  her  secretary  to  get  a  purse,  and,  returning  to  Jean,  she 
said,  with  a  disappointing  gesture : 


The  Masquerade.  239 

"  But  you  know,  one  cannot  give  as  much  for  ten  thousand  francs  as  for  a  hun- 
dred thousand.  And  besides,  in  conscience  one  ought  not  to  profit  by  another's 
misfortune." 

Then  she  slowly  loosened  her  purse-strings  as  if  they  were  her  heart-strings. 

But  again  Jean  reassured  her. 

"  Hence  it  is  not  money  that  I  want,"  he  said. 

"  Ah  I  and  what  do  you  want,  then  V  "  said  she,  with  a  joy  that  was  mingled  with 
surprise. 

And  she  quickly  replaced  her  purse  in  the  secretary. 

Jean  looked  her  squarely  in  the  face. 

"I  want  to  know  how  you  got  these  notes,"  said  he. 

"How?"  exclaimed  the  dumbfounded  Mme.  Potard. 

The  rag-picker  sat  down  by  the  round  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  ex- 
plained himself: 

"Yes,  Madame  Potard,  you  have  told  me  how  you  lost  them;  now  you  will  tell 
me  how  you  obtained  them." 

u  But,  Monsieur,"  cried  Mme.  Potard,  in  alarm. 

Jean  tilted  back  and  forth  in  his  chair,  still  looking  at  her  attentively. 

"There  is  no  Monsieur  or  Madame  about  it,"  said  he.  "I  will  return  them  to 
you  only  at  that  price." 

Mme.  Potard  succeeded  by  an  effort  in  recovering  her  self-possession. 

"  Well,  here's  a  curious  fellow,  indeed !    And  what's  that  to  you?" 

"Much." 

"Ahl     And  why?" 

"  I  want  to  know,"  said  Jean,  smiling.  "  An  old  woman's  whim,  Madame  Po- 
tard. You  can  take  it  or  leave  it." 

Mme.  Potard,  recovered  from  her  shock,  sat  down  in  her  turn  and  glanced  fur- 
tively at  Jean. 

"Why,  Monsieur,  I  earned  them  by  my  labor ;  they  are  the  fruit  of  my  savings." 

"  Tell  that  to  the  marines  1 "  exclaimed  the  rag-picker,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 

And  he  questioned  her  as  if  he  were  a  magistrate. 

"  You  lost  these  notes  in  the  Faubourg  Saint-Antoine,  did  you  not  ?  " 

"  Undoubtedly." 

"  At  night." 

"What  then?" 

"At  four  o'clock  in  the  morning." 

"What  of  it?" 

Jean  folded  his  arms. 

"  What  were  you  doing  at  night,  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  with  ten  thou- 
sand francs  in  your  pocket?  That  is  not  natural." 

Madame  Potard  was  disturbed,  seeing  herself  getting  deeper  and  deeper  into  the 
mire. 


240  The  nag-Picker  of  Parts. 

"Nevertheless  it  is  perfectly  true,  I  swear  to  you.  .  .  I  was  returning  from  my 
notary's." 

"  At  that  hour,"  said  Jean,  bursting  out  laughing,  "  notaries'  offices  are  closed. 
A  midwife  does  not  run  about  the  streets  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  with  her 
pocket  full  of  bank-notes,  unless  she  has  a  reason  for  it.  There  is  something  be- 
neath all  this.  .  .  .  Come,  out  with  it  ...  or  good-bye,  Bank  I " 

The  midwife  rose,  furious  at  being  caught  in  a  lie,  and  assuming  in  her  turn  a 
threatening  tone. 

"Ah!  but  you  too  are  a  little  queer,  yourself.  I  find  you  astonishing  with  your 
questions  .  .  .  and  it  is  very  obliging  in  me  to  answer  them.  These  notes  are 
mine.  They  do  not  concern  you,  and  I  shall  find  a  way  to  force  you  to  return 
them." 

"  And  I  to  force  you  to  speak,"  said  Jean,  resolutely. 

"  Yes,  that's  it,"  cried  Mme.  Potard,  growing  rebellious  and  running  to  the  bell. 
"  Well,  we  shall  see.  I  am  going  to  call  the  police." 

Father  Jean  walked  quietly  to  the  fireplace,  and  said: 

"And  I  am  going  to  throw  the  notes  into  the  fire." 

Mme.  Potard  was  not  expecting  this  straight  blow. 

She  stopped  in  amazement. 

Jean,  still  smiling,  held  up  the  package. 

"One  for  every  time  that  you  refuse,"  he  said. 
.     "Ahl  don't  be  idiotic,"  exclaimed  the  midwife,  coming  back  to  Jean. 

"As  true  as  the  fire  burns,"  he  declared,  separating  one  of  the  notes  from  the 
rest. 

"  He  is  mad,"  cried  Mme.  Potard,  in  terror. 

"I  begin,"  said  Jean,  stooping  down  before  the  fire.    "  See?    Will  you  tell?" 

And  receiving  no  reply,  he  threw  the  note  into  the  fire. 

"  One,"  said  he,  simply. 

Mme.  Potard  nearly  went  crazy. 

"  But  that's  a  thousand  francs,  you  stupid  brute.  Don't  you  know  what  that  is, 
you  savage  ?  " 

And  seeing  the  note  reduced  to  ashes,  she  groaned  sorrowfully : 

"Burned  I     Burned!     Oh!" 

"Have  you  anything  to  say?"  resumed  Jean.     "Two!" 

He  made  a  taper  of  a  second  note,  and,  lighting  it  hi  the  fire,  let  it  burn  slowly 
in  his  fingers,  while  Mme.  Potard  threw  herself  vainly  upon  him  to  tear  from  him 
the  flaming  note,  burning  her  hands  in  the  attempt  without  succeeding  in  getting 
it  or  putting  out  the  flame. 

"  Oh !  monster !  demon  1  sacrilege  1 "  she  screamed  in  horror,  her  eyes  starting 
from  her  head  in  her  rage.  "So  much  money!  Can  it  be  possible?  The  good 
God's  money  which  it  is  so  hard  to  earn.  Rascal,  you  shall  pay  me  for  this ! " 


fhe  Masquerade.  241 

And  enraged  at  her  powerlessness,  she  exclaimed : 

"Oh!  to  think  that  I  cannot  kill  him  on  the  spot  I" 

Then  she  shouted  in  her  frenzy: 

"Help!  fire!  thief!  murderer!" 

Jean  bent  over  toward  the  fire  again. 

"  Another  step,  another  cry,  and  I  throw  in  the  whole  package." 

"He  would  do  as  he  says,"  said  Mme.  Potard,  crushed.     "Oh!  I  shall  die." 

And  she  fell  back  coldly  on  her  chair. 

" Come,"  said  Jean,  "let  us  decide.     Three!" 

He  made  a  motion  to  throw  in  another  note. 

"  Stop !  "  cried  Mme.  Potard,  seizing  his  arm. 

"At  last!"  said  Jean. 

"  Well  I  let  us  share." 

"No,  all  or  nothing." 

"All,  you  say,  and  all  for  me?" 

"  Except  the  two  that  are  burned,  of  course." 

"Such  good  notes,"  sighed  Mme.  Potard.     "It  is  worse  than  murder." 

"  It  is  your  fault.  .  .  .     Come." 

Reflecting,  the  midwife  said  to  herself: 

"Twenty  thousand  francs  that  I  have  to  keep  silent,  and  eight  thousand  that  I 
shall  have  to  speak.  Total ".  .  .  . 

"Make  haste,"  said  Jean,  firmly. 

"I  am  calculating,"  cried  Mme.  Potard. 

And,  approaching  the  rag-picker,  she  asked : 

"  But  what  interest  have  you  in  knowing  this  secret?  " 

"  Ah  I  you  see  there  is  a  secret,"  said  Jean,  taking  her  at  her  word.  "Give  it  up, 
or  else ".  .  .  . 

And  again  he  made  the  threatening  gesture. 

"One  minute,  forceps!"  exclaimed  Mme.  Potard;  "let  me  breathe!  But  what 
do  you  want,  then,  if  you  return  me  all?" 

"  The  secret  or  the  fire." 

But  Mme.  Potard,  suddenly  illuminated,  cried : 

"  How  stupid  I  am ! " 

And  tapping  him  on  the  shoulder,  she  said: 

"  Ah !  you  sly  dog,  I  see  the  trick.  You  want  more,  a  hundred  times  more.  You 
are  right,  to  be  sure.  When  one  has  an  opportunity,  he  should  profit  by  it  .... 
and  this  is  a  good  one." 

"  As  you  say." 

Madame  Potard  took  Father  Jean  for  a  blackmailer  of  the  first  class,  and,  bow- 
ing in  his  honor,  she  said : 

"I  salute  you,  my  master;  I  never  thought  of  that,  simpleton  that  I  am.  Yes, 
that  would  be  a  stroke,  and  a  lucky  one ;  I  see.  T  see." 


242  The  Rag-Piclcer  of  Paris. 

And,  laughing  at  her  perspicacity,  she  added  : 

"  You  want  to  make  the  canary  sing."  * 

"  Yes,  my  sly  old  girl." 

"You  should  have  said  so,  then,  and  I  would  have  accompanied  you  directly. 
It  is  a  familiar  air.  .  .  .  You  have  a  secret  worth  more  than  those,  you  greedy 
rascal,"  said  she,  pointing  to  the  notes.  "You  give  me  the  egg  for  the  hen." 

"  A  good  layer  ".  .  .  . 

"  You  are  right.     Then  let  us  divide.  .  .  .    I  will  tell  everything." 

And  Mme.  Potard  sat  down  again. 

"  Agreed,"  said  Jean,  putting  the  notes  back  in  his  pocket. 

"There's  nothing  like  coming  to  an  understanding,"  said  the  midwife. 

"I  am  listening." 

Mme.  Potard  made  Jean  sit  down  beside  her,  and  continued  in  a  familiar  tone  : 

"Then,  partner,  let  us  explain  ourselves;  let  us  agree  upon  our  shares.  Cards 
on  the  table.  Eight  thousand  francs  is  not  enough  for  such  a  secret,  a  treasure,  a 
mine,  a  California !  So  we  will  make  an  honest  and  fitting  arrangement.  First 
you  shall  return  me  my  eight  notes  .  .  .  and  after  that  halves  in  everything." 

"  Agreed,"  said  Jean,  after  a  pause. 

The  midwife  gave  a  final  indication  of  distrust. 

"  May  one  have  confidence  ?  "  she  asked. 

"It's  not  to  be  had  for  the  asking,  but  I  know  how  to  manage  the  stroke  as 
well  as  another." 

"Oh!  that  indeed  I"  she  exclaimed. 

Then  she  added : 

"Are  you  honest?    That's  what  I  meant  to  ask." 

"You  have  your  notes  for  security." 

"Don't  give  us  the  dunce  act.  You  will  not  sell  me  out?  Do  you  under- 
stand?" 

"Ohl  the  ideal" 

To  clinch  the  matter,  she  concluded : 

"Certainly  you  are  not  of  the  security  police?" 

"Of  the  salubrity  police,  suspicious  creature.  I  clean  Paris.  See  where  my 
rake  scraped  the  notes." 

"  How  easy  to  spoil  and  burn ! " 

And  drawing  nearer  to  the  rag-picker,  who  sat  imperturbable,  but  all  ears  de- 
spite his  air  of  indifference,  she  added : 

"  Then  that  goes.    Listen." 

"Goon!" 

"Listen  carefully,"  repeated  Mme.  Potard.     "A  month  ago,  at  the  time  of  the 

•A  French  idiom,  signifying  the  extortion  of  blackmail. 


TJie  Masquerade.  243 

Carnival,  on  the  night  of  Mardi-Gras,  I  was  to  lose  a  new-born  infant,  in  consider- 
ation of  ten  notes  of  a  thousand  francs  each.  One  must  live,  you  know.  The 
mother  did  not  know  about  it;  perhaps  she  did  not  want  it  done ;  but  her  father 
did.  How  could  I  please  both?  In  case  of  doubt,  refrain;  isn't  that  the  way? 
Besides,  after  getting  the  notes,  my  courage  failed  me.  And  yet  they  say  that 
money  makes  people  bad.  Oftener  the  opposite.  I  wanted  to  save  the  child,  and 
•I  carried  it  to  the  lodgings  of  a  working  girl,  my  seamstress,  an  accommodating 
creature  whom  I  knew  to  be  capable  of  caring  for  it.  Once  there,  I  left  the  child, 
lost  to  the  father,  but  discoverable  by  his  daughter.  Thus  everybody  was 
satisfied." 

"And  the  working-girl?"  asked  Jean. 

Mme.  Potard  responded: 

"  Upon  my  honor,  I  meant  to  give  her  something  for  her  trouble." 

"Ye  gods  1     Hell  is  paved  with  good  intentions." 

"  Oh  !  don't  speak  of  hell,"  exclaimed  the  midwife,  seriously. 

"  All  right,"  said  Jean,  "  we  will  return  to  Paradise.     We  were  saying  then  ".  .  . 

"Why,  that  I  would  far  rather  divide  than  run  into  danger.  But  everything 
is  a  matter  of  luck.  I  did  not  find  the  working-girl,  and  I  lost  the  notes.  Of 
course  I  was  obliged  to  leave  the  child  to  the  mercy  of  God." 

"  And  of  the  working-girl,  good  heart,  go  on ! " 

"  Too  good  1 "  approved  the  midwife.  "  For  through  trying  to  save  the  child  I 
lost  the  money.  And  they  say  that  a  good  deed  is  never  lost." 

"You  see  that  it  is  not,"  observed  Jean.  "But  that  isn't  all.  The  names  of 
these  mysterious  persons  of  this  night  of  Mardi-Gras?" 

Mme.  Potard  hesitated  a  minute,  and  then,  making  up  her  mind,  answered  : 

"Oh,  yes.  Well,  Mademoiselle  Claire  Hoffmann,  daughter  of  Baron  Hoffmann 
is  the  mother,  and  Marie  Didier  is  the  working-girl." 

"Well,"  said  he,  "you  have  dotted  the  Is;  now  for  the  rest." 

"  What  rest?"  asked  the  midwife,  her  face  darkening. 

"  The  end  of  the  story." 

"What  end?" 

"Oh,  less  mystery!  The  child  that  you  saved  a  month  ago  was  killed  yester- 
dey." 

"  Hush ! "  exclaimed  Mme.  Potard. 

"Come,"  insisted  Jean,  "you  have  made  an  angel  of  it." 

"  Speak  lower,  wretch,"  whispered  the  midwife. 

"An  angel,"  repeated  Jean,  "on  account  of  the  devil All  right  1  silence 

in  the  workshop  I  And  now  for  the  proof  of  all  this?" 

This  question  disconcerted  Mme.  Potard. 

"  The  proof?"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  the  proof.    I  can  do  nothing  without  proof." 


244  fJie  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"  To  be  sure." 

"  And  I  must  have  proof,  and  good  proof,  in  order  to  act." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mme.  Potard. 

She  went  to  her  secretary  and  got  a  letter,  which  she  showed  to  Jean. 

"There,  read  that,  if  you  know  how  to  read." 

Then,  distrustfully  holding  back  the  letter,  she  said : 

"No,  listen." 

She  read : 

"Madame,  I  do  not  know  what  bargain  has  been  made  with  you  touching  the 
deposit  confided  to  your  care;  but  if  unfortunately  it  is  for  your  interest  to  lose 
it,  it  is  still  more  for  your  interest,  I  swear  to  you,  to  keep  it.  Be  kind  enough, 
then,  I  beg  of  you,  to  guard  it  with  maternal  care  until  it  shall  be  claimed ;  you 
will  be  rewarded.  —  C.  H." 

"Claire  Hoffmann,"  she  explained. 

"  The  daughter  of  the  baron,  Mademoiselle  Claire  Hoffmann  ?  " 

"Yes,  she  sent  me  that  yesterday.  She  learned  my  address  from  the  woman 
who  cared  for  her  during  child-birth,  and  to  whom  I  ventured  to  give  my  card. 
One  never  knows  what  may  happen,  eh?  What  music  I  " 

"  Enough  said,"  said  Jean,  "  give  and  take ;  there  are  your  notes ;  count  them." 

He  gave  her  the  notes,  put  the  letter  in  their  place  in  the  Didier  pocket-book, 
and  then,  putting  it  back  in  his  pocket,  began  to  get  ready  to  go. 

Mme.  Potard,  having  counted  the  notes,  sighed : 

"Eight!  ....  no  more?  Two  wanting,  you  know Pardoned,  but  not 

quits." 

"  Bah ! "  exclaimed  Jean,  as  he  started  off,  "  we  shall  have  plenty  more." 

Mme.  Potard  retained  him  by  the  skirt  of  his  old  coat. 

"  That  letter,  you  know,  is  worth  a  hundred  times  as  much.  To  part  with  that 
for  eight  thousand  francs  would  be  to  let  it  go  for  nothing." 

"  For  nothing  at  all,  in  comparison  with  what  I  want  for  it.  We  will  keep  our 
coach  and  four." 

"  For  the  last  time,  then,  it  is  understood  and  agreed,"  said  Mme.  Potard,  "  half 
for  me  and  two  besides." 

"  It  has  been  said  again  and  again,  old  repeater,"  said  Jean,  "  half  and  more.  I 
assure  you  the  best  end  of  the  bargain." 

"  Right  away,"  said  the  midwife,  now  decidedly  won,  "  for  I  am  obliged  to 
leave." 

"  Right  away,  Madame  Potard,  right  away  1  I  am  in  a  greater  hurry  than  you 
are." 

And  he  hastened  off. 

Mme.  Potard  struck  her  forehead. 

"  Say,  there  I "  she  shouted. 


The  Masquerade.  245 

"Again?"  exclaimed  Jean. 

"Yes,  I  am  thinking,"  said  the  midwife,  "  what  the  baron  will  say." 

"  The  baron  1 "  said  Jean.  "  Rest  easy  on  that  score.  I  will  not  compromise 
you.  I  am  not  so  stupid  as  that.  Everything  will  go  like  clock-work.  You  lost 
the  letter  with  the  notes,  and  I  found  the  whole.  See?" 

"Let  me  embrace  you,"  cried  Mme.  Potard,  carried  away  in  spite  of  herself. 
"What  a  man  I  Ready  for  everything!  It  is  your  affair.  Go  ahead,  you  are 
equal  to  it.  Stay  I  Instead  of  sharing,  let  us  marry." 

Jean  drew  back  further  and  further  toward  the  door. 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear,"  said  he,  "  I  am  not  free.  Too  happy  already  to  be  your 
partner." 

"  That's  a  pity,"  sighed  Madame  Potard.  "  Well,  then,  we  will  share.  Good 
luck  1  A  u  revoir  !  " 

And  Jean  went  out  precipitately. 

Madame  Potard,  left  alone,  went  into  ecstasies  over  her  notes,  counting  them 
again. 

"Eight  and  twenty,  twenty-eight  1  Thirty  with  the  two  burned  ones.  Ohl  he 
will  replace  them.  I  have  faith;  a  pretty  little  treasure  all  the  same,  even  though 
it  should  make  no  little  ones.  .  .  .  But  it  will.  Make  some,  I  beg  of  youl  No 
matter,  thirty  at  five  per  cent,  will  give  an  income  of  fifteen  hundred  fraffbs.  I 
shall  not  die  of  hunger.  I  will  retire  to  the  country,  far  from  the  Parisian 
police.  Paris  is  not  healthy,  as  the  baron  said.  I  will  go  to  Montrouge  and 
marry  the  chief  of  the  gendarmes." 

And,  delighted  with  this  charming  plan  of  retirement,  Mme.  Potard  closed  her 
secretary  again  after  a  last  look  of  adoration  at  her  "  savings." 


END  OF  PART  THIRD. 


246  The  Ray-Picker  of  Paris. 


PART  FOURTH. 

THE    STRTJOGKLE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

FORCED  MARRIAGE. 

Baron  Hoffmann,  with  anxious  brow,  entered  the  superb  dining-room  of  his 
mansion.  The  room,  always  luxurious,  wore  also,  on  this  evening,  an  air  of  fes- 
tivity. The  side-board,  a  marvel  of  sculpture  and  carving,  was  simply  loaded  with 
rare  flowers  and  fruits.  A  side-table  was  covered  with  bottles  containing  the  en- 
tire gamut  of  exquisite  and  generous  wines,  not  the  ordinary  richness  of  every  day, 
but  the  opulence  and  elegance  of  a  dinner  of  ceremony,  to  precede  the  making  of 
a  contract  in  due  form ;  for  on  this  evening  Camille  was  to  come  to  conclude  the 
"affair"  of  marriage,  in  company  with  the  notary,  Loiseau. 

The  table,  dazzling  in  its  whiteness,  glittering  with  silver  ware  beneath  the 
chandelier  lighted  with  its  hundred  candles  whose  flames  were  multiplied  in  its 
thousand  crystals  of  glass,  was  set  for  only  four  people.  The  banker  threw  a 
master's  glance  at  the  splendid  furniture,  the  soft  carpet,  the  Sevres  porcelain,  the 
splendid  paintings,  and  all  the  surroundings,  calculated  to  stimulate  good  humor 
and  good  appetite,  and,  satisfied  with  the  preparations,  turned  his  thoughts  upon 
the  expected  guests. 

"Seven  o'clock,"  said  he,  tapping  his  foot  on  the  floor,  "and  no  one  here  yet." 

Laurent  entered  with  a  letter  on  a  silver  plate. 

"  A  letter  from  Monsieur  Berville,"  he  announced  to  his  master. 

At  the  same  moment  Claire  appeared,  serious  and  looking  at  her  father  with  an 
indescribable  expression  of  horror  and  pity. 

The  baron,  after  reading,  muttered  in  sullen  anger : 

"The  madman  I" 

Then  he  said  to  the  servant : 

"Go;  I  will  send  an  answer." 

And,  turning  to  his  daughter,  he  continued : 

"Camille,  whom  I  expected  with  his  notary,  will  not  come.    I  had  good  reason 


The  Struggle.  2-47 

to  fear  some  rash  decision.  This  is  what  he  says:  he  wishes  to  break  his 
engagement." 

"  Seriously?  "  cried  Claire,  with  joy. 

"  Quite  so,"  said  the  baron.  "  He  makes  a  definitive  demand  for  his  accounts. 
It  is  no  longer  you  who  refuse ;  it  is  he.  This  damned  marriage  is  destined  to 
drag  along  forever ;  fortunately  the  fool  is  ruined  and  his  sweetheart  arrested." 

"  Arrested  1 "  exclaimed  Claire.     "  For  what ?" 

"For  infanticide,"  responded  the  baron,  brutally. 

Claire  sank  down,  uttering  a  groan. 

The  baron  ran  to  sustain  his  daughter. 

"  How  pale  she  is! "  he  anxiously  exclaimed.  "Suppose  she  should  die  I  Ship- 
wrecked in  sight  of  port  1 " 

But  she  soon  recovered  her  senses. 

"And  you  dare  to  accuse  her?"  she  murmured.  "Oh!  but  that  is  too  much, 
Monsieur." 

"  I  will  save  her ;  compose  yourself,"  the  banker  hastened  to  say.  "  I  will  save 
her;  but  no  weakness!  We  must  think  now  of  but  one  object,  —  your  marriage." 

"Ohl  shall  I  go  as  far  as  that?"  said  Claire,  woefully.  "I  shall  lose  my  rea- 
son, if  not  my  life.  I  have  no  will  left ;  nothing  but  a  remnant  of  dying  con- 
science. I  feel  nothing  but  the  grief  of  which  I  shall  be  the  perpetual  prey. 
Though  you  hide  our  crimes  from  others,  I  cannot  hide  them  from  myself.  I  am 
not  as  strong  as  you,  Monsieur.  I  can  stifle  fear,  but  not  remorse." 

"  Your  scruples  again  !  "  retorted  the  baron  ;  "  you  take  everything  too  much  to 
heart.  I  will  save  her,  I  tell  you.  It  was  the  only  way.  Alas  I  I  could  not 
choose.  It  was  necessary  to  accuse  her.  It  is  still  necessary,  in  order  to  take  Ca- 
mille  from  her ;  it  is  essential  to  our  safety,  as  you  know,  and  to  her  own.  For 
now  she  cannot  be  saved  except  after  us  and  by  our  aid." 

"  Ah  1  you  have  changed  my  fault  into  a  crime,"  answered  Claire,  in  despair. 
"  Before,  I  was  your  victim ;  now  my  guilty  weakness  makes  me  your  accomplice. 
Religion,  duty,  love,  — there  is  nothing  left  in  me  of  the  woman,  or  of  the  mother, 
or  of  humanity.  Oh,  God  1  my  nature  is  ruined!  " 

"Child,  I  take  everything  upon  myself." 

But  Claire  solemnly  replied : 

"  Are  you,  then,  tired  of  waiting  for  justice?  Do  you  find  her  too  slow  that  you 
press  her  so  hard?  Do  you  not  see  that  she  comes  a  step  nearer  with  each  of  our 
crimes?  For  my  part,  I  quake  already  under  the  shadow  of  her  hand.  Let  us 
stop." 

"Coward!"  exclaimed  the  baron.  "The  world  is  not  the  convent  whence  you 
came.  There  are  no  penalties  for  the  powerful.  You  belong  to  the  race  of  mas- 
ters, Duchess  de  Crillon-Garousse.  Trust  then  to  my  experience,  and  take  the  law 
jnto  your  own  bands.  Life  is  a  struggle.  Each  one  for  himself,  and  the  devil 


248  TJie  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

take  the  hindmost!  It  is  the  law  of  nature,  the  right  of  the  strongest  ....  you 
know,  the  lamb  is  for  the  wolf,  the  Didiers  for  the  Hoffmanns.  A  curse  upon  the 
weak  1  Victory  to  the  strong  1 " 

Claire  made  a  gesture  of  terror. 

"Oh  I  do  not  justify  our  infernal  egoism  by  this  law  of  evil.  Do  not  blaspheme! 
do  not  tempt  God  I " 

"This  law  of  iron  rules  us,"  answered  the  baron ;  "  let  us  follow  it.  We  did  not 
make  it,  we  cannot  change  it ;  under  it  we  must  choose  the  best  course  for  our- 
selves and  others  ....  and  well-ordered  ch  arity  begins  at  home.  Let  us  not  be 
more  benevolent  than  the  proverb.  I  will  save  this  girl,  I  swear  to  you,  but  after 
us  ...  as  is  just,  in  her  turn;  I  will  even  reward  her;  you  shall  aid  me  in  it,  that 
is  your  part." 

And  abandoning  himself  still  further  to  his  grand  nobleman's  morality,  he  went 
on: 

"Besides,  the  evil  is  not  so  great.  Do  not  exaggerate.  Your  sensitive  nature 
makes  a  monster  of  everything.  Hers  is  that  of  her  class.  A  plaster  of  silver  will 
dress  her  wound.  A  generous  dowry  in  her  apron  with  a  workiugmau  on  her  arm 
when  she  leaves  the  prison,  and  all  will  be  settled.  We  shall  be  quits." 

Claire  lowered  her  head,  conquered. 

"Oh!  my  father,"  she  murmured,  "I  shudder  at  your  cruel  sophistry  and  your 
frightful  examples.  And  my  cowardly  conscience,  in  yielding,  foresees  the  just 
penalty  which  I  incur  in  following  them.  God  will  punish  me  for  obeying  you." 

Just  then  Laurent  entered  after  first  knocking,  and  she  became  silent  again. 

"A  man  asks  to  speak  to  Monsieur  the  baron,"  said  the  servant. 

"I  am  not  in,"  answered  the  baron. 

And,  the  servant  having  gone  out,  he  said  to  his  daughter : 

"  Let  us  finish.  We  must  promptly  answer  Camille  that  he  is  ruined  and  she  is 
lost;  shame  and  poverty,  —  there  is  no  love  that  can  stand  against  those  two 
remedies.  So  no  more  frights !  Be  bold.  The  marriage  shall  take  place ;  that  is 
settled." 

Laurent  returned  with  an  air  of  hesitation,  and  said : 

"This  man  insists,  and  asks  to  speak  to  Monsieur  in  behalf  of  Madame  Potard." 

The  baron  again  became  anxious. 

"What  can  it  be? "  he  asked  himself. 

Then,  coming  to  a  decision,  he  gave  the  order : 

"  Let  him  enter." 

Laurent  went  out. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  cried  Claire,  in  alarm. 

"Leave  me;  I  am  going  to  find  out,"  said  the  baron,  in  a  tone  of  authority. 

And  he  waited  with  a  firm  foot,  ready  for  anything. 


Tfie  Struggle.  249 


CHAPTER  II. 

BANKER  AND  RAG-PICKER. 

"Monsieur  the  baron  Hoffmann?"  asked  Jean,  entering  abruptly  just  in  time 
to  see  Claire  go  out. 

The  banker  gauged  him  with  his  eye  for  a  moment,  in  anticipation  of  an  enemy, 
but  the  man's  appearance  reassured  him. 

"  I  am  the  baron,"  said  he,  disdainfully. 

The  rag-picker  pointed  to  Laurent,  and  eaid  in  a  lower  tone: 

"  I  have  a  word  to  say  in  your  ear." 

"  Laurent,  go  out,"  ordered  the  banker. 

Left  alone,  banker  and  rag-picker  surveyed  each  other,  as  if  to  measure  their  re- 
spective strengths  before  entering  upon  the  struggle. 

"  We  shall  play  cautiously,"  said  Jean  to  himself. 

The  baron  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead,  as  if  trying  to  refresh  his  memory, 
as  he  thought : 

"  I  have  seen  this  fellow  before  .  .  .    What  does  he  want?" 

Jean  wiped  his  brow  also,  saying  to  himself : 

"  How  he  eyes  me !     The  name  Potard  has  had  its  effect." 

The  baron  looked  him  suddenly  in  the  face. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  " 

"To  sit  down  first.  ...  I  am  tired,"  answered  Jean,  sitting  down  without  los- 
ing sight  of  his  adversary. 

The  baron  was  more  .disturbe  d  than  indignant  at  this  lack  of  ceremony., 

"What  assurance!"  said  he  to  himself,  "the  insolent  fellow!" 

"  And  then  to  talk  with  you,"  continued  Jean,  still  mopping  his  brow, 

^Thatvoiqe".  .  .  .  thought  the  baron. 

And,  viewing  him  with  redoubled  attention,  he  inquired : 

"But  first  who  are  you?" 

The  rag-picker  in  turn  ransacked  his  memory. 

"I  have  heard  that  tone  somewhere  before  .  .  .  where?  ...  no  matter  I" 

The  baron  questioned  him  more  rudely,  thinking  that  he  was  hesitating. 

"Come,  be  quick;  let  us  finish;  who  are  you?" 

"I. am  Father  Jean,  rag-picker,  at  your  service." 


250  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

The  whilom  Garousse  recognized  him  suddenly  and  almost  betrayed  himseli. 
His  features  contracted.  He  saw  again,  as  iu  a  nightmare,  the  Hotel  dltalie,  the 
basket,  the  crime,  and  he  murmured  in  his  fright : 

"  Ah  1  the  drunkard  of  the  Quai.  .  .  .    Why  is  he  here?  " 

And,  raising  his  voice,  he  responded : 

"I  do  not  know  you.    What  do  you  want?  " 

Jean,  following  his  nature,  went  straight  to  the  point. 

"  I  come,  recommended  by  Madame  Potard,  to  talk  with  you  concerning  the  ar- 
rest  of  a  poor  girl." 

"Eh?"  said  the  baron,  disconcerted  by  this  attack. 

"Yes,"  insisted  Jean,  "  a  poor  girl  accused  of  infanticide." 

"And  what  have  I  to  do  with  her?"  asked  the  disconcerted  baron. 

"  Do  not  pretend  to  be  ignorant,  Monsieur  baron,"  said  Jean,  coldly. 

The  baron  began  to  reflect  anxiously. 

"What  does  he  know?" 

And  he  added  aloud : 

"What  girl?    Yours,  of  course." 

"  To  some  extent." 

"What  do  you  say?" 

"Since  they  call  me  Father  Jean,"  he  answered,  "I  surely  must  be  to  some  ex- 
tent the  father  of  somebody  .  .  .  especially  of  her  who  has  lost  her  own." 

''  There  is  no  longer  any  doubt  ...  it  is  he,"  confessed  the  banker  to  himself. 

Jean,  fixing  his  eyes  upon  him,  continued : 

"I  have  a  father's  heart,  you  see,  though  I  have  no  child.  There  are  so  many 
others  who  have  children.  .  .  .  Well,  never  mind  that,  I  am  for  her." 

"And  what  can  I  do  in  the  matter  of  the  arrest  of  this  girl?"  asked  the  baron, 
recovering  his  cunning  in  the  presence  of  danger. 

"  Much,"  said  Jean. 

"Ah!" 

"Yes." 

"I?" 

"You." 

"Well,"  said  M.  Hoffmann  at  last,  seeming  to  yield.  "What  do  you  wish  me 
to  do  about  it?  Let  us  see." 

"It  is  not  necessary  for  me  to  tell  you,"  answered  Jean. 

"Some  money?"  ventured  the  banker. 

"Oh!  better  than  that,"  sneered  Jean.    "Madame  Potard  .  .  .  you  know  her?" 

"  The  infamous  creature ! "  thought  the  baron. 

Then,  determined  to  deny,  he  said,  haughtily: 

"Who  is  she?" 

Jean  rose  and,  standing  opposite  the  baron,  explained  himself  in  a  tone  that 
breathed  a  threat. 


The  Struggle. 

"The  mid-wife  whose  bank-notes  I  found  told  me  that  the  whole  thing  is  in 
your  hands,  and  I  believe  her.  You  have  a  long  arm ;  you  know  as  well  as  I  what 
you  have  to  do  to  secure  her  justice.  .  .  .  That's  all  I  have  to  say." 

"  He  knows  something,"  thought  the  banker. 

And  continuing  the  same  tactics,  he  added  aloud : 

"  You  are  mistaken,  I  am  not  a  judge." 

"Much  more,"  said  Jean,  "you  are  rich." 

"  We  live  in  a  Republic,  you  know." 

"  Bah !  money  is  always  king.  You  are  sure  that  Marie  Didier  is  not  guilty ; 
that  she  even  saved  the  child  whom  she  is  accused  of  killing.  .  .  Come,  isn't  that 
enough  to  merit  all  your  pity,  Monsieur  baron?" 

"He  is  unwilling  to  speak,"  said  t  he  banker  to  himself. 

And  trying  to  sound  him,  he  went  on: 

"Yes,  certainly,  that  would  be  quite  sufficient  to  interest  me  in  her  ....  and  1 
shall  be  able,  if  only  you  have  some  means  of  justification,  some  proof  of  her 
innocence".  .  .  . 

"  You  have  only  to  tell  what  you  know,"  answered  Jean,  ever  on  his  guard. 
"You  know  very  well  that  we  have  not  honor  enough,  we  others,  to  kill  our 
children." 

Now  the  baron  fully  understood  the  danger. 

"He  knows  all,"  thought  he;  "what  proofs  has  he?    He  must  speak." 

The  rag-picker  cut  short  his  reflections  by  saying  squarely: 

"You  will  speak  for  her  this  very  day,  will  you  not?  I  count  upon  it.  In  the 
name  of  your  daughter  you  will  save  mine." 

The  baron  then  determined  on  his  course. 

"Very  well,"  said  he,  "I  understand  your  sympathy,  and,  in  spite  of  your  reti- 
cence, I  am  willing  to  take  an  interest  in  your  protegee.  So  we  will  consult  as  to 
what  can  be  done,  and,  that  I  may  not  be  disturbed  and  may  be  wholly  at  your 
service,  I  am  going  to  dispatch  a  pressing  matter  of  business  and  return.  Wait 
here  a  moment  for  me." 

"All  right,"  said  Jean,  "  but  don't  be  long, — in  your  interest  as  well  as  my  own. 
A  word  to  the  wise  is  sufficient.  ...  I  await  you." 

And  aside,  as  if  .delighted,  he  said: 

"Ah!  Potard  told  the  truth." 

The  baron  went  out,  saying  between  his  teeth : 

"Oh!  he  shall  speak." 


252  Th*  Bag-Picker  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  HI. 

FOREVER  WINE  1 

Jean  watched  the  banker  go  out,  and  then  said,  as  he  shrugged  his  shoulders: 

"  So  that  is  Monsieur,  with  his  cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  .  .  .  and  the  Mon- 
thyon  prize  perhaps  ....  a  white  waistcoat  and  a  soul  as  hlack  as  his  coat  .  .  . 
and  his  face  ditto,  a  face  that  I  have  already  seen  I  know  not  where.  I  have  seen 
so  many  of  his  stamp,  decorated  or  otherwise;  and  that  pale  pink  of  propriety  who 
was  here  with  him  was  Mademoiselle.  One  would  give  her  the  good  God  without 
confession  and  the  flower  of  Nanterre  besides.  That's  the  sort  of  children  these 
people  have.  How  the  devil  is  it  that  people  capable  of  killing  their  children  can 
have  any  at  all?  To  be  sure,  cats  who  kill  their  offspring  have  enough  of  them. 
But  then,  the  poor  cats  do  not  always  have  anything  else  to  eat,  whereas  these 
creatures".  .  .  . 

Looking  at  the  table,  he  continued  : 

"What  luxury,  for  one  man  alone  I  Just  look!  Enough  for  a  whole  hospital 
of  orphans  and  old  people.  Does  this  ogre  need  it  all?  How  many  of  our  shares 
does  it  take  to  make  his?" 

He  went  to  the  side-table. 

"What  devices  of  bottles  and  flasks  of  all  sizes  and  shapes,  of  all  prices,  of  all 
flavors,  of  all  growths !  It's  curious,  all  the  same  ".  .  .  . 

And  he  read  the  labels. 

"  It's  frightful!  Champagne,  Spain,  Germany,  the  whole  earth  laid  under  contri- 
bution. What  a  wine-cellar !  A  regular  seraglio,  of  brunettes  and  blondes,  slen- 
der as  brides,  fat  as  fishwives,  with  pink  caps  and  straw  dresses.  There's  one  with 
a  silver  head,  and  another  with  gold  in  her  belly.  He  drinks  gold  I  And  we  have 
not  water  to  drink !  .  .  .  What  does  he  eat?  Diamonds?  Ah!  the  man  and  his 
wine,  the  devil  and  hell  distilled,  vice  and  crime  sealed  and  tied  up.  .  .  .  But  it 
doesn't  dazzle  me.  I  will  uncork  you,  poisons,  with  a  few  good  strokes  of  my  hook. 
AH  the  filth  isn't  in  the  street.  Oh!  the  monsters,  I  will  pick  them  up  ...  into 
the  basket  I  into  the  basket  I  Away  with  you,  gilded  debauchery,  you  shall  not 
always  have  so  much  in  your  canteen.  .  .  .  But  he  doesn't  come  back.  Is  he  go- 
ing to  roast  me  here?  I  am  dying  with  heat." 

He  struck  heavily  upon  the  table. 


The  Struggle.  253 

Just  then  his  back  was  turned  to  the  door,  and  he  did  not  see  the  baron  intro- 
duce Laurent  into  the  room  and  remain  behind  the  curtain  himself  to  listen. 

The  servant  began  to  fill  the  stove  with  wood,  saying  to  Jean : 

"Monsieur  baron  will  return  presently.  He  bids  me  tell  you  to  have  a  little 
patience  and  to  sit  down  at  the  table  while  waiting." 

He  set  the  table  for  one  more. 

"  That's  your  place,"  said  he. 

The  rag-picker,  walking  back  and  forth  in  agitation,  shouted  to  the  departing 
Laurent : 

"At  the  table  1     He  invites  me  to  dinner  .  .  .  too  polite".  .  .  . 

And,  left  alone,  he  continued : 

"  A  rag-picker  dining  with  a  banker.  ...     I  see  him  coming.  .  .  .     He  surely 
means  to  inveigle  me,  to  offer  me  his  money.     They  think  they  can  do  everything 
with  money  ....  and  they  can  almost  ....  but  Father  Jean  is  not  to  be  taken 
that  way.     Money  is  not  so  tempting  to  us  who  have  none;  less  tempting  than  to  • 
him,  who  has  so  much.    What  ruins  these  rascals  is  that  they  never  count  on  the,- 
conscience  of  others.     Let  him  come  I  " 

And  he  concluded  with  an  explosion: 

"Oh !  I  will  save  her,  in  spite  of  him,  in  spite  of  the  devil,  in  spite  of  his  money."' 

Laurent  returned  with  a  soup  tureen,  and,  pointing  Jean  to  a  seat  at  the  table,, 
said: 

"You  are  served.    Wait  with  your  feet  under  the  table." 

Jean  wiped  his  brow  again.     The  heat  was  becoming  suffocating. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  he,  "I  am  not  hungry." 

The  servant  did  not  contradict  him,  but,  filling  two  large  glasses  on  a  waiter, 
asked : 

"You  are  thirsty  at  least?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Jean. 

"Well,"  said  Laurent,  presenting  the  waiter. 

But,  seeing  Jean  draw  back,  he  said: 

"Why  prance  about  in  that  way?    It  is  not  bad.  .  .  .     See!" 

He  drank  a  glass  and  filled  it  again,  continuing  in  a  persuasive  tone  : 

"  But  God  forgive  me,  you  are  in  a  perspiration ;  if  you  will  not  eat,  at  least  drink 
a  little  to  refresh  yourself." 

"  Indeed,  one  cannot  refuse.  I  am  sweating  big  drops.  I  am  dying  of  heat  and 
thirst ;  I  have  run  about  till  I  am  breathless.  It's  a  long  way  from  Honore  to  An- 
toine,  and  on  these  old  pins  of  mine.  .  .  .  Give  me  some  water." 

"Water!"  exclaimed  Laurent;  "to  make  you  sick?  Water's  good  for  nothing 
when  one  is  warm.  A  little  wine,  that's  the  stuff!  That  refreshes  without  chill- 
ing. .  .  .  Bordeaux  I  Mademoiselle's  wine." 

"Yes,"  said  Jean,  consenting,  yielding  to  this  reasoning  and  his  thirst.  "But 
only  a  drop  .  .  .  and  well  baptised." 


254  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

He  took  up  the  decanter. 

Laurent  held  back  his  arm  persuasively. 

"  There,"  said  he,  "as  little  as  you  like.     Do  not  get  an  attack  of  pleurisy." 

This  proved  the  decisive  word. 

"You  are  right,"  said  he;  "this  is  no  time  for  that." 

He  drank  with  avidity,  and  set  down  his  glass,  which  Laurent  filled  again  im- 
mediately. 

"Enough,  thank  you,"  cried  Jean.  "  We  should  use,  but  not  abuse,  —  especially 
with  good  things." 

"Bah!"  rejoined  the  valet,  "when  one  can  get  bourgeois  wine.  .  .  .  What 
quality  1" 

"  True,  but  beware  of  quantity.     Today,  you  see  ".  .  .  . 

And  the  rag-picker  tried  to  pour  some  water  into  the  wine. 

Laurent  indignantly  removed  the  decanter  from  his  reaoh. 

"  Ah  I  you  spoil  it,"  he  cried. 

Father  Jean  continued  to  mop  his  brow. 

"Be  seated,"  advised  Laurent;  "it  makes  you  still  hotter  to  stand. 

"I  believe  you,"  said  Jean.     "This  heat  is  too  much  for  me." 

And  he  turned  his  head  about,  looking  for  a  place  where  he  might  get  a  breath 
of  fresh  air.  The  stove  was  roaring,  sending  out  a  torrid  heat  through  every 
opening. 

The  valet,  decidedly  generous,  took  advantage  of  this  opportunity  to  refill  the 


Jean  drank  again  and  threw  himself  back  in  his  seat,  while  Laurent  emptied 
his  own  glass  into  Jean's,  saying : 

"Come,  old  boy,  do  me  the  honor.  You  are  still  at  your  first  bumper.  I  am 
ashamed  of  you.  Just  do  as  I  do  and  quench  your  thirst  ....  there  ....  tran- 
quilly. How  do  you  like  it?" 

"Oh  I  I  never  drank  anything  to  compare  with  it,"  confessed  the  rag-picker, 
emptying  his  glass  with  one  swallow. 

"  Such  wine  is  not  to  be  had  at  the  first  corner  (coin)"  said  Laurent,  beginning 
the  same  game  over  again,  always  pouring  but  not  drinking. 

"At  any  rate,"  answered  Jean,  good-humoredly,  "it  is  of  a  good  brand  (com)." 

Laurent  emptied  the  bottle. 

"  One  finger  ....  without  water  ....  this  time,  that  you  may  taste  it  better. 
Try  that." 

Jean  tasted. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "still  better.    It  does  one  good." 

"  Come,"  said  the  servant,  passing  to  another.  "  This  is  at  least  its  equal.  Let's 
empty  the  bottle  before  it  gets  flat.  Upon  my  word,  I  am  doing  all  the  drinking 
and  you  the  sweating.  Put  a  little  courage  in  your  throat,  good  old  father. 
Oh  1  you  have  no  force." 


The  Struggle.  255 

The  rag-picker,  disturbed  and  a  little  humiliated,  but  resisting  the  temptation, 
resolutely  shook  his  head. 

"No,  no,  that  will  do." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Laurent,  "this  will  completely  restore  you.  Some  Bordeaux 
that  has  been  ripening  here  for  an  hour." 

"No,  1  tell  you;  I've  had  too  much  already:  I  am  not  accustomed  to  it." 

And  Jean  pushed  back  his  glass. 

Laurent  took  a  third  bottle  and  used  colored  glasses. 

"  Ah !  to  be  sure,"  said  he,  "  you  don't  get  such  wine  every  day.  Then  make 
the  most  of  the  opportunity  when  it  comes.  It  is  so  much  taken  from  the  enemy. 
This  is  better  yet,  Monsieur's  wine  ....  Beaune-Hospice  ....  the  wine  of  the 
comet." 

And  pouring  it  out  freely,  he  made  a  pretence  of  drinking,  as  he  added: 

"Do  as  I  do." 

"Of  the  comet,"  said  Jean,  under  a  spell.     "Ah  !  just  a  sip  of  the  comet." 

Then  his  face  became  more  serious. 

"  Beaune-Hospice,"  he  repeated,  undo  ubtedly  thinking  of  the  widow  Didier,  who 
had  died  after  a  few  weeks'  treatment  with  watered  milk.  "  Ah !  well,  many  comets 
will  cross  the  skies  before  they -give  such  Beaune  as  that  in  the  hospitals  (Jiospices). 
Why  the  devil  does  it  bear  that  name  ?  " 

"  Why,  it  is  the  wine  for  invalids,"  said  Laurent,  pouring  it  out  in  floods.  "  It 
is  balm  to  the  stomach.  Each  glass  adds  a  year  to  one's  life.  Excuse  me  for  help- 
ing myself  first;  this  is  the  foam." 

"Oh  I  the  lees  are  as  good  as  the  foam,"  said  Jean,  unable  to  resist.  "Besides, 
I  don't  wish  to  be  a  centenarian." 

He  continued  nevertheless  to  drink,  and  with  delight. 

"Better  and  better,"  he  cried.     "  That  would  revive  a  dead  man." 

"  It  is  the  milk  of  old  age,"  approved  Laurent,  "  the  joy  of  man.  Another  glass 
to  drink  your  health." 

"  You  are  very  polite,"  said  Jean,  in  a  thick  voice.     "  A  last  glass  for  a  hob-nob." 

And  they  touched  glasses  and  drank. 

"  Here's  to  you! "  said  Jean. 

A  minute  passed.  He  moved  about  on  his  chair,  sweating  big  drops  and 
growling : 

"Ah!  but  your  master  is  forgetting  me.     I  am  in  a  hurry." 

Baron  Hoffmann,  who  had  witnessed  this  scene  from  behind  the  tapestry,  made 
a  sign  to  Laurent,  and  disappeared  without  having  been  noticed  by  the  rag-picker. 

Father  Jean  tried  to  rise,  but,  seized  with  giddiness,  fell  back  again. 

"Go  and  find  him,"  said  he. 

Laurent  picked  up  the  bottle  again. 

"  The  rest  first,"  he  insinuated.  "  It  is  the  bottom  of  the  bottle,  saving  your  re- 
spect .  .  .  with  a  biscuit  .  .  .  the  bread  of  Beaune." 


256  The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"Well,  to  top  off  with,"  conceded  Jean. 

And  Laurent  went  on : 

"We  must  not  leave  this  little  bit;  it  would  be  wasted." 

"That  would  be  a  pity,"  said  Jean,  drinking  and  smacking  his  lips.  "It's  as- 
tonishing how  thirsty  I  am  today.  The  more  I  drink  the  more  I  want,  as  if  I  were 
salted.  I  am  melting  with  heat,  impatience,  and  rage.  This  room  feels  like  an 
oven.  My  body  is  on  fire.  I  am  burning  up." 

He  seized  the  empty  bottle  himself  and  tried  to  ponr  from  it. 

"There's  nothing  left  in  the  pump,"  he  exclaimed,  looking  at  Laurent  stupidly. 

The  valet  pointed  to  a  bottle  in  a  silver  pail  full  of  ice. 

"  Here's  another,"  said  he,  "  and  just  what  you  need  to  drive  away  the  salt  taste. 
Champagne,  champagne  frappJ".  .  .  . 

"What  do  you  mean  byfrappdt"  asked  Jean.  "  Do  you  beat  it,  then?  For  my 
part,  I  would  rather  kiss  it." 

"Frozen,  iced,"  explained  Laurent,  laughing.  "Warmed  Bordeaux  ....  iced 
champagne  ....  old  novice." 

"  Iced !  "  said  Jean.    "  Good  1     This  time  I  shall  be  refreshed." 

"  Yes,  yes,  this  is  the  thing.  So,  old  boy,  you  are  not  acquainted  with  cham- 
pagne frapptff  " 

"  Why,  no,  I  never  drank  any.    Let  us  see  what  it  is  like." 

Laurent  made  haste  to  pour  some  out. 

"  The  devil  I  how  you  go  at  it  1  Full  to  the  brim.  It's  easy  to  see  it  costs  you 
nothing." 

"Bah !  what  do  these  glasses  hold?    A  mere  thimbleful  1 " 

"  That's  all  right,  but  I  need  my  head,  you  see ! " 

"Oh I  this  wine  does  not  intoxicate;  on  the  contrary." 

"  So  much  the  better.     For  I've  got  to  talk  to  your  boss." 

"  All  the  more  reason,  then  ;  this  will  inspire  you." 

And  Laurent  poured  for  him  abundantly. 

"Really?"  asked  Jean,  shaken. 

He  emptied  his  glass,  and  the  servant  straightway  refilled  it;  then,  drinking 
again,  he  continued : 

"  In  fact,  I've  often  said  that  there's  nothing  like  champagne  to  give  one  an  idea. 
It's  the  son  of  light  and  the  father  of  wit." 

Laurent  poured  continually,  adding: 

" Didn't  I  tell  you  so?     Come,  another  idea! " 

"  Yes,  yes,  the  devil  take  me  I  it  is  the  spirituel  wine  .  .  .  the  blood  of  France." 

The  valet  nodded  his  head  approvingly. 

"With  the  champagne,  take  some  of  the  wine  of  the  four  beggars." 

"  Ah  I  "  answered  Jean,  "why  do  you  call  it  the  wine  of  the  four  beggars?  Eh, 
sly  dog  I  Because  it  asks  to  be  drunk  ....  four  times  I  To  make  amends,  you 
silly  fellow,  pour  some  out." 


The  Struggle.  257 

Laurent  hastened  to  obey. 

"Out  upon  you,  old  joker!  He  made  up  his  mouth.  .  .  .  He  seemed  not  to 
toucli  it.  He  sipped  and  moistened  his  lips,  like  a  sparrow." 

And,  filling  Jean's  already  emptied  glass,  he  added : 

"  Now  for  a  bumper  I     That's  the  talk ! " 

"I,  youngster,"  said  Jean,  piqued,  "if  I  did  not  restrain  myself  ....  I  would 
swallow  the  whole  wine-cellar,  to  the  last  drop,  and  you  with.  .  .  .  Formerly, 
twenty  years  ago,  if  you  had  seen  me,  it  was  a  very  different  thing;  I  have  fallen 
off  more  than  a  quart  a  year.  .  .  .  Old  age  I  That's  what  it  does  for  us.  Come, 
pour  away,  you  neglect  me,  you  worry  me." 

"  Ah  1  what  a  pity  I  there  is  no  more  here,"  said  Laurent,  pretending  to  refuse 
in  order  the  more  to  excite  him. 

"  Well,"  said  Jean,  warmly,  "  turn  on  the  faucet." 

Laurent  acquiesced. 

"  Oh,  here's  some  sauterne." 

Jean  looked  at  the  bottle  admiringly. 

"See  how  it  sparkles,"  he  cried,  in  a  hoarse  voice.  "Nothing  stupid  or  dull 
about  that,  my  boy." 

The  valet  went  for  a  plate. 

"  And  with  some  oysters,"  said  he. 

But  Jean,  raising  himself  up,  sent  them  flying  in  the  air  with  a  blow  from  the 
back  of  his  hand. 

"  Oyster  yourself  1 "  he  articulated,  with  effort. 

He  began  to  drink  again,  pouring  the  wine  himself  and  filling  the  glasses  to  the 
brim  as  he  shouted  to  Laurent : 

"But  you  drink  no  more.     I  am  just  getting  a  taste  for  it." 

And  he  continued  to  swallow,  stammering : 

"  To  be  sure,  you  drink  every  day,  and  you  haven't  been  running  bout'sh  I  have. 

....  You  were  right  .  .  .  doctor this  winds  up  the  mainspring ;  it  puts 

heart  in  one's  stomach.  Ah  !  your  rascal  of  a  master  can  come  back  when  he  likes. 
He  has  only  to  behave  himself.  ...  I  am  going  to  talk  to  him  and  with  his  wine. 
....  I  am  going  to  rinse  him  as  I  do  this  glass." 

He  drank  again,  taking  off  his  cravat,  his  head  on  fire,  excited,  and  growing 
more  and  more  thirsty. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  new  lackey  appeared. 

"  Laurent,"  said  he,  "  Monsieur  baron  is  asking  for  you.  ...  I  will  serve  Mon- 
sieur in  your  place." 

"  All  right,  Leon,"  said  the  valet,  going  out. 

Jean,  swaying  from  right  to  left,  began  to  stare  and  jeer  at  Leon. 

"  As  many  valets  as  wines,"  said  he;  "  and  what  faces  I  They're  in  good  condi- 
tion, all  these  fellows  I  Ah!  they  have  only  this  to  do.  '  Peter,  what  are  you  do- 


258  Tkt  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

ing?'  'Nothing.'  'And  you,  Paul?'  '  I  am  helping  Peter.'  And  then,  with  such 
an  allowance  of  wine  1  What  nectar !  " 

Drinking  and  taking  Ldon  by  the  arm,  he"  continued : 

"  What  syrup !  What  a  bouquet !  Violets  and  roses  1  The  whole  garden  of 
plants !  It's  better  than  Niquet.  Ah !  if  Niquet  were  as  good  as  this  and  free,  I'd 
drink  night  and  day.  .  .  .  Come,  finish  the  glass  with  a  comrade  I" 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Leon,  resisting. 

Father  Jean  began  to  laugh,  stammering  and  stumbling  in  his  speech,  and  then 
resumed : 

"  Is  this  youngster  going  "to  force  me  to  beg  him  ?  Come,  since  you  are  asked. 
When  wine  is  poured,  it  must  be  drank.  Ah !  Sainte-Nitouche,  you  want  it  full, 
you  hypocrite  1 " 

He  refilled  Le*on's  glass  and  his  own,  and  drank  again. 

"No,  thank  you,  I  tell  you,"  said  the  valet,  pushing  back  the  wine  with  an  air 
of  disdain. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  said  Jean,  "  I  invite  you ;  I  am  responsible  for  everything. 
I'm  the  master  here.  Swallow  that  down,  you  booby." 

"  I  never  drink  wine,"  answered  the  valet,  dryly. 

"No  wine,"  cried  the  rag-picker.     "Ah!  poor  fellow  1    You're  a  Turk,  then  I " 

"  I  like  nothing  but  brandy  .  .  .  and  if  you  will".  .  .  . 

Jean  started  up  in  his  chair. 

"  Brandy !    I'm  with  you.     Oh  1  I'm  not  tired  yet,  my  boy." 

"Especially  of  that,"  said  Le*on,  taking  from  the  side-table  a  bottle  of  old 
cognac,  brandy  a  hundred  years  old. 

"Brandy!  Water  of  life!"  cried  the  rag-picker  in  a  transport  of  enthusiasm. 
"  What  a  beautiful  name  I  Do  I  want  brandy,  I  ?  Ah !  ah  !  that's  my  weakness 
too;  shake,  old  boy,  give  me  your  hand;  in  you  I  recognize  myself.  Brandy  a 
hundred  years  old,  older  than  I  am,  born  at  Cognac  and  before  the  revolution; 
let's  see  it!  Pass  her  to  me,  this  virgin.  Isn't  she  beautiful?  Love,  away! 
Still  she  seems  a  little  small  for  her  soul.  Let's  see,  then,  what  she  has  in  her 
soul.  Oh  I  oh !  how  it  shines  .  .  .  rays,  gleams,  as  of  melted  topaz,  the  entire  sun 
bottled  up." 

And,  turning  to  the  bottle  gliste  ning  in  the  light,  he  said : 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  look  at  me  like  that  with  your  golden  eyes,  coquette  ? 
Uncork  it,  my  son,  uncork  it." 

Leon  opened  the  bottle. 

"  There  you  are,"  said  he. 

Jean  completely  lost  possession  of  himself. 

"  Come,  hurry  up,  dawdler,"  he  cried,  "  give  it  to  me  1  You  torture  me.  I  can't 
resist,  because  I  haven't  drank  any  of  it  for  a  century.  I  am  getting  dizzy.  Ah  1 
dear  beauty,  my  heart  beats  for  you.  ...  I  am  growing  sick.  ...  I  am  dying." 

"  Here  it  is,  passionate  old  lover  that  you  are,"  said  Le"ou. 


The  Struggle.  259 

Jean  grasped  the  bottle  and  said  with  ardor : 

"  Ah  !  darling,  a  kiss  upon  your  pretty  beak,  with  both  hands  and  full  mouth." 

He  began  to  drink  from  the  bottle  itself. 

"  Enter  the  nave,"  he  continued  with  delight,  "they  want  you  in  the  chorus.  .  . 
and  make  haste,  gurgler.  .  .  .  There  is  a  crowd  holding  high  festival.  ...  In 
clover,  deary.  .  .  Buried,  the  bourgeois!  F'reverjoy!  F'rever  feasting  I  F'rever 
wine!  F'rever  brandy !  What  drives  away  sorrow?  Wine.  What  gives  beauty 
to  life?  Brandy.  What  warms  and  revives  me  when  I  am  dying  of  cold  and 
hunger?  Wine.  What  restores  me  and  sets  me  up  when- 1  am  falling  sick? 
Brandy." 

And  as  formerly,  at  the  Quai  d'Austerlitz,  he  sang  his  refrain: 

F'rever  wine ! 
F'rever  juice  divine! 

Just  then  Baron  Hoffmann  entered,  saying  in  an  undertone: 

"  Now's  the  tiraa  1     Let  us  squeeze  the  sponge." 

"  Here,  Monsieur ! "  said  Leon  to  the  rag-picker. 

But  Jean,  still  drinking,  said  : 

"Who's  that?  .  .  .  Nothing.  .  .  .  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  .  .  .  Don't 
stir.  .  .  .  For  my  part,,  when  I  soak  myself,  I  take  root." 

And  again  he  began  to  sing  incoherently.  Then,  after  stopping  a  moment  to 
take  breath,  he  continued : 

"  Let's  drink  the  whole  vineyard !  Let's  sing  the  praises  of  the  entire  cellar  till 
the  end  of  the  world !  " 

"  Leon,  go  out,"  ordered  the  ba  ron. 

"What?  Go  out!  "  exclaime  d  Jean,  swaying  before  the  banker.  "What's  this 
blackbird  whistling?" 

And  he  resumed  his  singing : 

No,  friends  are  not  such  fools 
That  they  will  part. 

Then  to  Leon : 

"  Stay,  stay,  I  bid  you,  and  pa  ss  him  a  glass.     I  treat;  he  pays." 

He  hummed  with  a  voice  broken  with  intoxication: 

Fill  up  your  empty  glass ! 

A  moment  longer  he  tried  to  keep  Leon,  who  went  out  upon  a  sign  from  the 
baron. 

Then,  having  failed  to  hold  the  valet,  he  approached  the  master,  staggering  and 
singing: 

The  more  one  stays  with  fools, 

The  more  one  stays  with  fools, 

The  more  one  laughs! 


2CO  The,  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"I  beg  a  thousand  pardons  for  my  long  absence,"  said  the  baron,  watching  him. 
"At  last  I  come  back  to  talk  with  you." 

Jean  stumbled  up  to  him. 

"  Ah  1  it's  you,"  he  exclaimed.  "  Entirely  forgiven,  my  dear  sir ;  I  have  been 
waiting  under  the  vines." 

The  baron  turned  away  to  avoid  his  breath. 

"Pooh!"  he  exclaimed,  in  disgust. 

Jean  continued : 

"You  kept  me  so  long  that  I  got  thirsty.  Been  waiting  through  more  than  five 
bottles,  but  not  drunk!  I  could  easily  wait  to  drink  the  rest.  I  could  swallow 
the  sea  and  the  fish.  But  here  you  are !  All  right,  what  is  it?" 

The  baron  answered  evasively : 

"  I  am  at  your  service  now.     Let  us  talk  of  your  business." 

"My  business?"  said  Jean,  bewildere  d  and  tapping  his  forehead. 

Then  he  exclaimed : 

"  Oh  1  yes,  I  remember." 

"  Did  you  say  that  you  had  a  proof?"  asked  the  baron. 

Jean  answered  with  great  volubility. 

"Yes,  yes,  let's  talk  of  that,  and  not  by  four  roads  either.  You've  had  Marie 
Didier  arrested.  You  are  going  to  have  her  released,  and  that  quickly  too,  imme- 
diately and  not  tomorrow.  Tomorrow's  a  traitor,  like  yourself,  and  cannot  be  de- 
pended upon.  This  very  day  and  even  sooner  ....  because  you  made  the  child, 
—  that  is  to  say,  your  daughter  did, — and  you  had  it  killed,  and  I  have  the  proof." 

Reeling,  he  tried  to  lead  the  baron  away. 

The  baron  insisted. 

"The  proof?" 

"Yes,  the  proof,  your  daughter's  letter,  the  letter  to  the  midwife;  let's  be  off." 

"  Oh !  the  foolish  wretched  girl  1 "  said  the  baron  to  himself. 

Jean  took  the  letter  from  his  pocket-book. 

"Ohl  it's  no  use.  I  have  that  in  my  pocket  which  will  make  you  march 
straight,  by  rail,  by  steam,  and  at  high  speed.  I  have  the  letter,  signed  ....  do 
you  understand?  I  have  the  proof,  and.there  it  isl " 

"  At  last  I  have  him,"  said  the  baron  aside. 

Jean  caught  hold  of  the  banker. 

"Come,  let's  start  1" 

The  baron  stopped  him. 

"You  want  to  exploit  me,  do  you  not?"  said  he,  "to  extort  money  from  me? 
You  take  me  for  your  milch  cow.  Well,  no  scandal  I  Return  that  letter  to  me. 
I  multiply  the  notes  by  three." 

"  Go  to !  you're  a  simpleton,"  exclaimed  Jean,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 

And  he  put  the  pocket-book  back  in  his  pocket. 


The  Struggle.  261 

"Your  fortune  for  that  letter,"  continued  the  baron. 

"My  fortune  I"  sneered  Jean,  who  had  lost  all  prudence  but  not  all  honesty. 
"Is  that  it?  Have  we  come  to  that?  Hal  ha  I  ha  I  my  fortune!  Oh!  this 
bra/en-face.  I  expected  it.  .  .  I  am  on  my  guard,  idiot ;  proof  against  gold  and 
silver,  baron.  How  many  millions  for  Jean's  daughter?  You're  too  poor,  banker  ! 
My  fortune !  And  for  what  ?  I  was  already  greatly  embarrassed  with  the  old 
woman's  ten  thousand  francs.  Fortune  for  me,  Soiffard  I,  king  of  the  Gonlots? 
Bahl  Just  to  have  a  face  as  ugly  as  yours,  old  man,  be  fed  upon  bank-notes,  have 
a  beast's  skin  on  my  hands  and  death's  hairs  on  my  head,  and  spit  in  my  pocket?" 

The  baron  had  just  spat  in  his  handkerchief. 

"  Just  to  have  more  wine  than  one  can  drink,  valets  that  empty  the  cellar,  daugh- 
ters that  kill  their  brats  and  then  charge  others  with  the  crime  .  .  .  the  devil  and 
his  whole  train  ....  never  1  never  1  But  this  is  not  to  the  point.  We've  talked 
enough.  Let's  go  to  the  judge!" 

Again  he  tried  to  drag  away  the  baron. 

"Well,"  said  the  baron  between  his  teeth,  "it  must  be  today  as  before." 

And  he  added  aloud,  in  a  threatening  voice : 

"You  will  not  give  it  to  me;  then  I  am  going  to  take  it." 

Jean,  unable  to  defend  himself,  began  to  shout : 

"Help!  help!" 

The  baron  seized  him  by  the  collar,  as  on  the  night  of  the  Quai  d'Austerlitz. 

"  Will  you  be  silent,  rascal  ?  "  said  he,  tightening  his  grasp  and  twisting. 

Jean  uttered  a  loud  cry : 

"  Ah !  the  grip  of  the  Quai  I " 

He  had  just  recognized  the  murderer  of  Jacques  Didier. 

"Proof  against  gold,  but  not  against  wine,"  exclaimed  the  baron,  taking  the 
pocket-book.  "  The  wine  has  gone  in,  the  secret  comes  out." 

And,  taking  out  the  letter,  he  cried  joyfully : 

"  I  have  it  1 " 

Jean  struggled  on  the  floor,  screaming : 

"Ohl  robber!  murderer!  He  is  killing  me,  he  is  robbing  me  ....  as  he  did 
Didier.  He  takes,  he  burns  the  letter;  the  proof  .  .  .  help,  murder,  fire!" 

The  baron  was  in  fact  burning  his  daughter's  letter  in  the  flame  of  a  candle. 
But  suddenly,  glancing  at  the  pocket-book  which  he  held  in  his  hand,  he  ex: 
claimed : 

"What  do  I  see?" 

He  read : 

Berville  Bank.  —  Jacques  Didier,  collector. 

Straightway  he  replaced  the  pocket-book  in  Jean's  pocket. 

"  Good  I"  he  said  to  himself. 

"Ah!  robber  I"  cried  the  rag-picker.  "  Double  assassin.  My  letter!  my  proof  I; 
Stolen!,  burned !  He  kills  the  daughter  as  he  did  the  father." 


262  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

\ 

The  baron  rang  and  called  loudly. 

"  Hello  there,  somebody  1 " 

Laurent,  Le*on,  and  two  other  valets,  one  of  whom  was  dressed  as  a  footman, 
hurried  into  the  room. 

"  Arrest  this  drunken  man,"  ordered  the  baron.  "  He  is  the  murderer  of  Jacques 
Didier,  the  collector  of  the  Berville  Bank  I " 

And  he  went  out  triumphantly,  holding  his  head  high. 

Jean,  picked  up  by  the  valets,  struggled  like  a  madman,  in  a  paroxysm  of  intoxi- 
cation, and  screamed  as  if  the  victim  of  an  atrocious  nightmare: 

"Drunk!  assassin Who  says  I'm  drunk?  No,  I  am  not  drunk.  I  am 

mad!" 

Releasing  himself,  he  seized  a  bottle  and  drove  back  the  valets. 

"  Oh  1  my  head  burns.  Demons  1  they  have  poured  fire  into  me ;  I  have  been 
drinking  hell!  .  .  .  Two  against  one,  the  cowards;  they  have  filled  me  up".  .  .  . 

And  looking  at  the  valets,  he  resumed  in  his  frenzy: 

"There,  there  are  ten  of  them  now,  the  traitors.  Murder's  wine!  the  devil's 
blood !  the  milk  of  crime  1  the  water  of  death ! " 

Looking  in  his  pocket  for  the  letter,  in  the  height  of  his  fury,  he  stammered  in 
a  frightened  yet  threatening  voice : 

"  The  letter,  the  Quai !  Jacques !  Marie !  Wine !  .  .  .  To  the  guillotine  with 
wine  I  ...  I  am  wine's  executioner ;  I  will  execute  wine !  Let  there  be  no  more 
wine  upon  earth!  Where  is  wine  that  I  may  exterminate  it?" 

With  a  supreme  effort  he  overturned  table,  bottles,  and  glasses,  rolling  in  the 
heap  himself. 

Then  only  could  the  valets  pick  him  up  and  carry  him  off,  gesticulating  and 
crying  with  horror : 

Forever  wine  I 
Forever  juice  divine  I 


The  Masquerade.  263 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  CONCIERGERIE. 

In  prison  slang  the  Conciergerie  is  called  the  Tower  and  the  great  inner  court- 
yard the  Heap.  It  is  the  rag-basket  of  Paris,  the  human  rag-basket,  continually 
filled  up  by  officers  and  sorted  out  by  judges,  those  rag-pickers  of  the  police  and 
the  courts.  On  the  day  with  which  we  have  to  do,  three  hundred  Parisian  frag- 
ments were  swarming  in  this  pit,  open  to  the  sky,  but  whose  high  walls,  impossi- 
ble to  scale,  would  have  discouraged  Latude. 

A  circular  bench  fastened  to  the  wall  permitted  the  prisoners  to  sit  down  by 
turns. 

On  one  side  a  door,  on  the  other  a  fountain  with  an  iron  goblet.  The  desperate 
eyes  of  this  wretched  crowd  were  lowered  towards  the  ground.  In  fact,  why  look 
above  at  free  space  and  thus  add  the  torture  of  Tantalus  to  that  of  the  jail? 

Laborers  out  of  work,  vagabonds,  drunkards,  keepers  of  girls,  prowlers  of  the 
suburbs,  old  offenders  in  the  courts,  superannuated  bandits,  —  this  entire  world 
was  gloomy,  thoughtful,  anxious.  They  jostled  without  mingling  with  each  other; 
groups  formed  and  closed  up  spontaneously,  the  delinquents  of  a  day  separating 
from  the  habitual  criminals.  Like  gravitates  to  like. 

A  keeper,  with  his  heavy  key  in  his  hand,  watched  the  prisoners,  imposing 
silence  upon  a  few  youngsters  whose  buffo  oneries  were  continually  bursting  out,  in 
spite  of  the  posted  regulation  forbidding  loud  talking,  laughing,  singing,  whistling, 
leaping,  and  running,  under  penalty  of  the  dungeon,  of  the  mitard,  to  use  the  word 
of  the  prisoners  and  the  jailers,  the  latter  spe  aking  the  same  tongue  as  the  former, 
howling  not  with  the  wolves,  but  like  the  wolves. 

Into  the  "  heap  "  had  strayed  a  young  man  of  scarcely  twenty-five,  with  a  smil- 
ing and  honest  face,  the  spruce  and  natty  d  ress  of  a  prosperous  workman,  a  kind 
and  frank  nature,  possessing  the  two  beauties,  physical  and  moral,  the  one  reflect- 
ing the  other. 

"Ah-ah-ahl"  he  exclaimed,  yawning  and  stretching.  "How  badly  one  sleeps 
here.  What  a  hotel  furnished  with  bugs  !  Upon  my  word,  the  mattresses  are  too 
thickly  settled,  like  the  suburbs  of  Paris.  The  government  doesn't  give  us  enough 
to  eat,  but  to  make  up  for  it  delivers  us  to  the  beasts  to  be  eaten.  Martyrs,  well, 
I  should  say  so !  One  is  pricked,  sucked,  pumped,  reduced  to  nothing.  Oh  1  the 
vermin,  what  officials  they  would  make  1  They  are  equal  to  the  bourgeois," 


264  The  ^Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

The  door  opened,  and  some  attendants,  prisoners  helping  in  the  service,  ap- 
peared, carrying  loaves  of  black  bread  and  a  kettle  filled  with  warm  water  in  which 
a  few  dry  vegetables  were  swimming. 

"Say,  I  see  no  beefsteak,"  said  the  young  man  to  himself,  feeling  a  good  appetite. 

They  distributed  the  bread  and  then  served  the  soup  in  earthen  bowls  shaped 
like  basins. 

It  came  young  Bonnin 's  turn. 

"The  devil  1 "  he  exclaimed,  taking  his  bowl  from  the  attendant's  hands,  "am  I 
to  wash  my  hands  in  this  or  eat  it  ?  " 

"  You  are  to  swallow  it,  you  joker,"  said  the  other. 

"Ah!  indeed  I  .  .  .  only  I  was  about  to  say  ".  .  . 

"What?"  asked  the  attendant. 

"Why,  that  it  isn't  clean  enough  to  wash  in;  but  provided  it  is  for  the  inner 
man,  I  am  silent  .  .  .  and  I  introduce  your  lye  into  my  person.  Thank  you  1 " 

But  the  overseer  reminded  the  attendant  of  his  duty. 

"  Paolo,  be  quick,  gather  up  the  bowls." 

"Already!"  exclaimed  Bonnin,  in  a  vein  of  gayety.  "It  was  not  worth  while 
to  pronounce  a  eulogy  of  Napoleon  in  our  presence  last  evening.  He  ate  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  and  we  in  a  quarter  of  a  second.  1  ask  for  the  demolition  of 
the  column." 

"Do  you  want  to  go  into  the  mitard!"  cried  the  keeper. 

The  workman  was  not  disconcerted. 

"  If  you  consult  my  tastes,  I  will  say  no,  unless  your  heart  is  really  set  upon  it." 

Paolo  came  back  to  Bonnin  to  get  his  bowl,  which  he  had  emptied  with  a  gulp 
to  avoid  the  taste  of  its  contents. 

The  attendant  related  his  grievance  to  the  workman. 

"  To  think  that  I  should  be  here,  when  the  last  place  where  I  was  employed  was 
the  Maison  d'Or." 

"Just  imagine  that  this  is  a  branch  establishment,"  said  Bonnin  to  console  him. 

"I  am  ruined,"  groaned  the  other,  "  and  yet  I  am  an  honest  man." 

"  Retired  from  business,"  said  Bonnin,  laughing.  "  Come,  confess  that  you  have 
sold  your  capital  of  honesty." 

"I,  never! "  denied  the  Italian ;  "  I  am  the  victim  of  a  fatal  resemblance." 

"  Yes,  I  see,  they  have  taken  you  for  a  canary  and  put  you  in  a  cage." 

"  I  swear  to  you  that  they  have  mistaken  me  for  another,"  affirmed  Paolo. 

Bonnin  assumed  a  doubtful  air. 

"It  is  you  who  take  me  for  another.  But  you  know  it's  useless  to  serve  each 
qther  with  the  sauce  of  our  misfortunes;  it  doesn't  go  down." 

Paolo,  as  gentle  as  a  lamb,  drew  nearer  to  the  workman. 

"  And  it  appears  that  you  have  been  arrested  for  a  political  offence,"  said  he., 
^ou  know  that?"  said  the  other,  on  his  guard. 


The  Struggle.  265 

"Yes,"  answered  Paolo;  "but,  say,  what  happened  at  that  manifestation  of.  .  . 
of".  .  .  . 

"You  are  informed,  I  hope,"  sneered  Bonnin.  "You  want  the  explanation  of 
my  affair?  Well,  if  any  one  asks  you,  you  will  answer  without  hesitation  that 
you  know  nothing  about  it." 

And,  as  Paolo  began  his  yarns  again,  the  workman  doubled  his  raillery. 

"Ah!  you  know,"  said  he,  "with  such  a  face  as  yours  that  doesn't  go  down. 
Listen  to  me :  on  leaving  the  '  Heap '  one  generally  enters  either  the  pkgre  or  the 
rousse,  as  you  say  here.  One  becomes  either  a  robber  or  a  policeman.  You  lack 
frankness,  and  frankness  is  a  necessary  qualification  for  the  liberal  professions. 
You  were  not  cut  out  for  a  robber.  You  were  a  waiter  in  a  restaurant,  you  say; 
make  yourself  a  spy.  That  too  is  a  way  of  serving  society." 

But  the  keeper  again  called  Paolo. 

"Well,"  he  cried;  "when  are  you  coming?" 

The  attendant,  our  old  acquaintance  of  the  Hotel  d'ltalie,  resumed  his  service 
and  stopped  before  an  old  workman  bent  and  broken,  who  viewed  this  scene  with 
a  sombre  look  of  revolt. 

When  Paolo  took  his  bowl,  he  saw  that  it  was  full. 

"  Ah  I  you  swallow  nothing?  "  said  he,  in  astonishment. 

"I  am  not  hungry,"  said  the  old  man,  without  raising  his  head. 

Bonnin  took  the  bowl,  saying  joyfully  : 

"  Really !     Well,  you're  in  luck.    I  am  your  successor." 

And,  after  swallowing  the  soup,  he  continued  his  observations : 

"  To  say  that  that  is  nourishing  perh  aps  would  be  an  exaggeration,  but  then  it 
fills  one  up.  Say,  of  what  is  this  dish-water  made?  Not  easy  to  say,  I  fancy. 
Let's  see.  Ah!  I  know;  they  pick  up  refuse  from  the  floors  of  the  markets  and 
boil  it  in  the  water  of  the  Bievre.  .  .  .  But  no;  in  that  case  it  would  be  better; 
that's  not  it." 

The  prisoners,  interested  and  amused,  formed  a  circle  around  Bonnin,  who 
continued : 

"  Ah !  now  I  have  the  receipt  1  They  rinse  our  bowls  at  night  in  warm  water, 
don't  they?  Well,  that  makes  the  bouillon  for  the  next  day.  It  is  the  extract  of 
dirty  dishes  concentrated  and  perpetuated." 

And  he  returned  his  bowl  to  Paolo. 

But  the  latter,  who  was  vexed  with  Bonnin,  killed  his  success  with  a  joke. 

"  What  stupid  nonsense  you  talk !  Don't  you  know  that  the  dishes  are  never 
washed?" 

And  he  finished  his  service,  happy  at  having  driven  his  nail  into  the  scoffing  and 
impenetrable  workman  and  riveted  it. 

"  Then,"  said  Bonnin,  quitting  the  circle  of  his  hearers,  "  one  is  bound  to  be- 
lieve that  the  cook  of  the  Conciergerie  is  like  the  good  God  and  makes  something 
out  of  nothing." 


The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 

And  after  this  comparison  flattering  to  Providence,  he  went  to  sit  down  on  the 
bench  by  the  side  of  the  old  man. 

The  latter  noticed  him  and  looked  at  him  with  pleasure,  content  at  finding  a 
sympathetic  countenance  in  the  midst  of  this  repulsive  herd. 

"  Tell  me,  why  are  you  here?  "  he  asked  him. 

Bonnin,  who  had  no  longer  the  same  reasons  to  distrust,  told  the  story  of  bis 
arrest  with  his  natural  good-humor. 

"Ah!  This  is  how  it  was.  The  government  asked  us  for  three  months' credit. 
Granted.  We  pinched  our  bellies;  but  now  it  seems  that  our  debtors  of  the  Pro- 
visional are  insolvent.  So  I  followed  the  comrades  of  my  section  to  a  meeting  of 
creditors.  The  friends  cried  to  our  debtors:  "Bread  or  lead!  Give  us  bread  or 
lead.'  That  did  not  seem  to  me  exactly  logical,  and  I,  a  little  too  consistent,  as  it 
seems,  shouted :  '  No  I  Give  us  bread,  or  we  will  give  you  lead.'  My  variation 
doubtless  did  not  please  everybody,  for  they  grabbed  me,  and  here  I  am ! " 

The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

"As  for  me,"  said  he,  "  I  am  here  because  I  have  worked  so  hard  all  my  life  that 
I  am  no  longer  good  for  anything  .  .  .  not  even  to  enter  the  national  workshops. 
For  worn-out  laborers  there  is  nothing  but  the  poor-house  or  the  '  Heap.'  I  haven't 
even  held  out  my  hand.  Having  no  longer  any  lodging,  I  simply  slept  outside: 
vagrancy.  The  prison!  Ah!  if  we  have  another  revolution  and  if  I  am  free! 
My  name  is  Brutus  Chaumette,  young  man,  and  in  February  for  the  last  time  I 
showed  the  stuff  I  am  made  of  ...  the  last  time,  did  I  say?  Who  knows?  for  I 
left  blood  there." 

And  the  workman  with  the  hammer  straightened  up  his  lofty  stature,  roaring 
like  an  old  lion  at  the  story  of  his  life  of  poverty. 

"At  your  age,  my  friend,  I  was  like  you,  gay,  laughing,  taking  life  easily.  I 
earned  my  living  as  a  machinist.  Then  I  got  married.  Children  came  and  then 
died.  Can  one  support  brats  in  Paris  ?  The  mother  died  at  last,  leaving  me  a 
little  girl.  Not  a  cent  left,  debts  on  every  hand,  and  out  of  work  in  the  bargain." 

Chaumette  took  the  young  workman  by  the  arm. 

"I  pawned  my  hammer  to  get  milk  for  the  child.  And  then  there  was  nothing 
left,  and  I  had  to  carry  the  child  to  the  Public  Charities  .  .  .  abandon  it,  you  un- 
derstand. Poverty  has  dropped  me  lower  and  lower.  I  have  followed  all  trades, 
— sweeper,  messenger,  drudge.  At  last  I  became  a  porter  in  a  refinery,  running 
about  naked  as  a  worm  with  moulds  of  boiling  sugar,  carrying  them  at  full  speed 
through  rooms  as  hot  as  hell,  where  I  had  to  hold  my  breath  to  keep  my  lungs 
from  burning,  and  then  running  to  take  a  shower  under  the  fountain  before  re- 
turning to  this  task  of  the  damned.  All  this  to  earn  sixty  cents  a  day.  That's 
why  my  hide  looks  as  if  I  were  a  hundred,  my  boy.  Ah  I  you'll  see,  you'll  see,  you 
too  .  .  .  later." 

The  old  man  remained  silent  a  moment  and  then  resumed: 


The  Struggle.  267 

"  You  see,  all  that  would  be  nothing,  nothing,  I  swear  to  you,  if  I  could  only  find 
my  poor  little  Marianne  again,  my  daughter,  of  whom  I  have  never  had  any  news, 
in  consequence  of  my  well-known  ideas.  ...  '  Wrong-headed  fellow ! '  they  have 
answered  me  at  the  office  of  administr  ation .  They  owed  me  no  information ;  they 
have  given  me  none.  Ah  1  leave  me,  young  man,  I  need  to  isolate  myself  in  my 
trouble ;  else  I  shall  again  become  ex  cited,  do  stupid  things,  break  and  smash 
everything  .  .  .  and  there  is  nothing  here  but  walls.  Anger  loses  its  rights." 

Bonnin,  who  had  become  serious  with  emotion,  shook  the  old  man's  hand  and 
went  away,  screwing  up  his  face  to  suppress  a  tear. 

"  Pshaw !  I  am  not  going  to  weep." 

The  keeper  raised  his  voice  and  said,  addressing  the  prisoners: 

"Attention,  all  of  you !  The  roll-call  is  about  to  begin.  He  who  is  strongest  in 
the  jaws  shall  serve  as  crier  today.  You,  Hercules  of  the  North." 

"Yes,"  answered  the  latter,  detach  ing  himself  from  the  worst  group,  where  he 
was  telling  how,  in  pretending  to  be  a  co  mmissioner,  he  had  been  arrested  in  ear- 
nest, with  his  dear  friend,  the  beautiful  Sophie. 

Paolo,  who  had  just  swept  the  yard,  made  ready  to  pass  the  call-sheets  to  the 
crier,  Hercules,  muttering  aside : 

"A  spy  is  as  good  as  a  sheep.  As  well  be  doing  the  work  and  getting  the  pay 
of  the  police,  both  without  and  within.  I  am  going  to  rise  in  rank.  Better  the 
cat  than  rat.  One  does  not  get  arrested  at  least.  One  arrests!  Ahl  Bonnin, 
you  shall  pay  me  yet  1 " 

The  Hercules  of  the  North  mounted  th  e  bench  by  the  side  of  Paolo,  who  passed 
him  the  sheets  as  fast  as  he  received  them  from  the  jailer. 

Bonnin,  to  distract  his  thoughts  from  Chaumette's  sad  story,  approached  the 
door  to  say  his  word  to  those  coming  in  and  going  out. 

The  Hercules  began  his  work,  reading  and  bawling: 

"Marechal,  Auguste,  thirty-seven  years.     For  arraignment.     With  his  effects." 

Bonnin  saw  an  individual  shake  hands  with  the  other  prisoners  and  go  out  with 
A  little  bundle." 

"On  the  way  to  La  Force,"  exclaimed  the  young  workman  .  .  .  "no  need  of  a 
commissioner  ....  in  the  berliu  of  the  emigrant.  All  the  rascals  are  not  in  it; 
else  you  would  find  my  employer  there." 

The  Hercules  shouted  another  name,  after  having  deciphered  another  sheet. 

"  Bambouli ;  Bambouli,  Ernest.  To  be  photographed." 

As  Ernest  started,  Bonnin  made  this  remark : 

"  That's  what  ii  is  to  be  a  handsome  fellow.    You  get  your  portrait  free." 

The  crier  continued : 

"  Grippart,  for  examination." 

And  Bonniu  shouted : 

"  For  the  inquisition." 


268  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"Gamord,  Antoine,"  bellowed  the  Hercules;  "Gamord,  twenty-five  years;  For 
sentence." 

A  wretched  vagabond  left  the  court- yard,  dragging  himself  painfully  along. 

Bounin  stopped  him  a  moment. 

"My  poor  friend,  you  will  say  to  the  judges:  'Ladies,' — of  course,  since  they 
wear  skirts, — 'I  am  roving,  you  are  sitting;  let's  change,  if  you  please,  for  our 
health.' " 

The  Hercules  called  another  prisoner. 

"Charles  Bertrand,  former  employee  in  the  Department  of  Public  Charities, 
condemned  for  the  Gavard  affair,  term  finished.  At  liberty,  arms  and  baggage." 

The  young  workman  was  about  to  address  this  Saint  Peter  of  the  paradise  of 
angels  when  Brutus  Chaumette,  on  seeing  this  liberated  prisoner  and  hearing  his 
name,  recalling  the  greatest  sorrow  of  his  life,  his  exhausted  wife  and  his  aban- 
doned child,  ran  up  to  him,  crying: 

"My  daughter  1" 

"  What  does  this  crazy  old  man  want  ?"  said  the  employee,  going  out  hastily. 

"  Not  so  fast,"  cried  Bonnin ;  "  the  sooner  you  go,  the  sooner  you  will  return." 

The  crier  read  his  last  sheet : 

"  Robert  Joguerre,  sentenced  to  hard  labor,  en  route  !  " 

The  prisoners  looked  at  each  other,  but  not  one  of  them,  left  the  groups. 

'•Come,"  cried  the  jailer,  "Joguerre,  and  immediately;  otherwise  the  strait 
jacket  and  iron  collar  1" 

"  Oh  1  gentleness  1 "  exclaimed  Bonnin.  "  The  iron  collar !  it  was  well  worth 
while  to  take  the  Bastille,  wasn't  it,  Chaumette?" 

But  the  old  man,  sunk  into  a  corner,  did  not  answer,  thinking  of  his  child. 

At  last  the  convict  decided  to  go  out. 

"To  the  galleys,"  said  the  jailer,  striking  him  on  the  back  several  times  with 
his  key.  "  And  now,  silence  and  order.  Paolo,  watch !  I  am  going  to  receive  the 
new-comers." 

Scarcely  had  the  jailer  disappeared  when  the  prisoners  began  to  jump,  shout, 
sing,  and  scream,  —  in  a  word,  to  do  all  that  was  forbidden  by  the  regulations  and 
the  jailer,  just  to  disobey  the  administrative  tyranny  that  condemns  men  to  be 
mute  and  motionless. 

The  confusion  of  noises  made  an  inhuman  clamor  in  which  could  be  distin- 
guished whistles,  cries,  calls,  questions,  answers,  and  threats,  a  regular  dialogue  of 
the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  all  the  growls  and  grunts  of  the  animal  kingdom. 

"  Hello,  Chariot.  ...  Is  your  father  arrested?  And  your  brother?  And  your 
sister?  Hello!  Down  with  the  Bourse !  Cou rage  to  friends  and  to  men  !  Death 
to  sheep  and  to  spies!  To  the  gallows  with  flicks  and  gaffes!  Death  to  vaches 
and  to  bovrriques  ! — Pi-ouiit.  .  .  .  Youp-ohu!" 

This  concert  of  curses  upon  judges  (vetches'),  police  officers  (flicks),  jailers  (gaffes'), 
etc.,  had  scarcely  ended  when  leap-frog  and  other  games  were  begun. 


The  Struggle.  269 

"What  a  menagerie  1"  exclaimed  Bonnin,  clasping  his  hands  with  a  comical  air 
of  astonishment. 

"Look  out,"  cried  Paolo,  "the  keeper  is  coming  back.  Here  are  the  new 
arrivals." 

In  fact,  uuder  the  arches  of  the  prison  sounded  at  intervals  this  cry : 

"Into  the  common  room.     Receive ! " 

"Send!  "  growled  the  Hercules,  raising  the  shout  so  familiar  in  the  jails. 

Bonnin  thought  it  incumbent  on  him  to  do  the  honors  of  the  "Heap"  to  the 
arrivals. 

"  Take  the  trouble  to  come  in,"  said  he,  humorously.  "  There's  room  for  every- 
body .  .  .  and  more.  Come  in,  vagabonds,  beggars,  and  starving  men;  you  have 
been  caught  in  two  turns  of  the  arm,  you  shall  be  judged  in  two  turns  of  the  law. 
Justice  by  steam.  Come  in,  then,  I  pray  you;  you  don't  have  to  pay  until  you  go 
out.  Here  is  the  rendezvous  of  w  orkmen  out  of  work  and  employers  out  of  busi- 
ness. It  is  the  hospital  of  abandoned  childhood,  the  asylum  of  invalid  old  age, 
the  pound  for  two-footed  beasts.  .  .  .  Come  in,  come  in!  Nobody  is  refused. 
This  is  hell." 

Then  he  pointed  up  to  the  windows  of  the  cells  and  said : 

"  See,  there  are  the  private  boxes  r  eserved  for  the  nobility  and  the  clergy,  the 
manufacturers  and  the  financiers.  Come  in  without  fear,  gentlemen  ;  we  do  not 
mix  those  who  have  done  everything  and  those  who  have  done  nothing.  The 
bourgeois,  fond  of  their  ease,  have  rooms  apart.  Here  as  everywhere,  respect  for 
the  wealthy  knaves.  The  barefoot  ed,  the  bankrupts,  the  aristocrats,  the  loafers, 
elegant  and  filthy  alike,  each  finds  his  place  and  keeps  his  rank.  The  'Heap'  is 
not  made  for  the  'haves,'  but  for  the  'have-nots.'  " 

And  in  truth  the  poorly-dressed  prisoners  entered  the  court-yard,  while  the  more 
distinguished  went  up  to  the  rooms  reserved  for  them  above. 

But  Bonnin,  intent  upon  his  business,  received  the  new-comers  with  workman- 
like frankness,  always  hard  upon  robbers,  christening  them  in  his  own  fashion  and 
according  to  their  appearance. 

Catching  sight  of  the  first,  he  asked: 

"Say,  you,  Rigolo,  what  have  you  done?" 

The  fellow  confessed  his  offence  complacently. 

"I  almost  knocked  down  my  mother-in-law,  and  she  entered  a  complaint." 

Bonnin  gave  him  a  friend's  advice. 

"  Another  time  you  will  knock  her  down  completely ;  she  will  have  nothing  more 
to  say  ;  at  least  that's  my  opinion.  You're  in  for  three  weeks." 

He  passed  to  the  second. 

"Your  crime,  Gredinet?" 

"  Assault  in  the  night-time,"  answered  the  other. 

"  Ah  I  "  said  Bonnin,  "that's  an  affair  of  three  months." 


270  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

Then  to  the  next : 

"And you,  poor  Azor?" 

"I  thrashed  a  policeman  in  broad  daylight,"  was  the  answer. 

"Poor  fellow  1  you'll  get  three  years.  Three  weeks,  that's  easy;  three  months 
that's  endurable;  but  three  years,  that  comes  hard.  Keep  your  courage  up!  " 

A  beggar  in  rags  and  tatters  came  through  the  door. 

"Why  do  you  come  here,  Croesus?  "    inquired  Bonniu. 

"  To  look  for  bread.    I  stole  some  y  es  terday  in  order  to  have  some  today." 

Bonnin  was  silent. 

A  youngster  followed,  saying  in  his  vicious  little  voice: 

"My  parents  want  me  shut  up  in  a  house  of  correction,  and  I  come  here  to  serve 
my  apprenticeship." 

"Your  parents  are  right,"  declared  Bonnin;  "they  wish  to  show  you  a  good 
example.  Choose  your  professors.  When  you  leave  here,  you  will  have  a  sure 
trade,  with  no  danger  of  ever  getting  out  of  work." 

The  keeper  reappeared,  shouting  again : 

"  Attention ! " 

A  man  rushed  into  the  court-yard,  stumbling  over  the  pavements,  hitting  his 
head  against  the  walls,  and  screaming  at  the  top  of  his  voice: 

Forever  wine! 

He  sank  upon  the  bench  beside  Brutus  Chaumette,  while  Bonnin  murmured: 

"Whoever  sold  him  his  liquor  didn't  cheat  him." 

"My  daughter!  "  screamed  Father  Jean,  for  it  was  he  whom  they  committed  to 
prison.  .  .  .  "My  daughter!  ....  Marie!  .  .  .  The  letter!  .  .  .  The  Quail 
....  The  wine!  .  .  .  The  proof!  .  .  .  Lost!" 

"He  is  mad,"  said  Bonnin,  addressing  Chaumette. 

"His  daughter!  .  .  .     His  daughter!  .  .  .    Yes,  mad,  as  I  shall  be  soon." 

Hoots  had  greeted  the  entrance  of  the  rag-picker.  Several  prisoners  ran  after 
him,  bawling : 

"A  drunkard  I     A  drunkard!" 

And  one  of  them  cried : 

"To  the  fountain  I" 

The  old  Chaumette  stood  up  in  front  of  Father  Jean,  covering  him  with  his 
body. 

"  Not  a  step  farther,  gang  of  bandits,"  he  growled. 

But  a  burst  of  laughter  answered  him. 

Bonnin,  appealed  to  by  Chaumette,  interposed  also,  and,  taking  his  place  beside 
him,  in  a  pugilistic  attitude,  he  shouted : 

"  Well !  touch  him  and  see  I " 

His  resolute  attitude  produced  an  effect  upon  the  leaders,  and,  no  one  making 


The  Struggle.  271 

up  his  mind  to  strike  the  first  blow,  the  jailer,  called  back  by  the  noise,  had  time 
to  intervene  and  release  Father  Jean  by  dealing  heavy  blows  right  and  left  with 
his  key. 

Meanwhile  the  prison  bell  rang,  announcing  the  hour  for  returning  to  the 
dormitory. 

The  prisoners  formed  a  procession  in  pairs,  Jean  on  Chaumette's  arm  and  re- 
peating :  "  Marie  I  my  daughter  1 "  while  Bounin  brought  up  the  rear,  saying  to 
himself : 

"Really,  this  old  fellow  doesn't  seem  to  be  any  worse  than  the  other.  What  can 
he  have  done?  We  shall  know  tomorrow,  when  he  has  slept  off  his  wine,  —  that 
is,  if  his  head  doesn't  ache  too  hard." 

Then,  his  natural  disposition  coming  to  the  surface,  he  added: 

"Everybody's  looking  for  his  daughter  today.  No  wonder  there  are  so  many 
lost  girls." 

And  with  this  sally  he  climbed  the  stairs  of  Morpheus. 


272  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  V. 

SAINT-LAZARE. 

From  the  men's  prison  let  us  go  to  the  women's,  from  the  Conciergerie  to  Saint 
Lazare.  It  has  just  struck  the  hour  of  noon.  The  gloomy  house  is  gradually  be- 
coming animated.  It  is  visitor's  day. 

The  first  to  send  in  his  name  was  Camille  Berville. 

"  Some  one  already,"  said  the  sister  to  herself,  introducing  the  young  man  into 
an  enclosure  set  off  by  railings. 

Camille,  in  great  agitation,  saluted  the  nun,  saying: 

"Please  be  good  enough,  Madame,  to  send  for  Mademoiselle  Marie  Didier." 

The  sister  consulted  her  book  and,  starting  towards  a  corridor,  cried : 

"No.  97,  the  girl  Didier." 

"Such  a  call  in  such  a  place,"  thought  Camille  sorrowfully.  "What  a  pityj 
Poor  saint  in  hell  1" 

Again  he  addressed  the  nun  : 

"My  sister,  Mademoiselle  Didier  is  innocent,  the  victim  of  an  error.  Show  her, 
then,  please,  all  the  consideration  compatible  with  your  duty." 

The  nun  sulkily  acquiesced. 

"I  will  heed  your  recommendation,  Monsieur,"  she  answered,  thinking  to  her- 
self: "Love!  either  blind  or  an  accomplice!  " 

And  with  affectation  she  added : 

"Here,  Mademoiselle." 

She  went  out,  while  Marie,  giown  thin  and  pale,  made  her  entrance,  clad  in  the 
sombre  prison  garb. 

"  Ah !  Monsieur  Camille,"  she  cried,  with  enthusiasm. 

Camille  held  her  in  his  arms. 

"Marie!  dear  Marie !     Good  news,  you  will  be  free." 

Marie  sobbed. 

"  I  am  not  guilty ".  .  .  . 

"  You  guilty !"  repeated  Camille;  "as  much  so  as  the  child  they  have  killed." 

"A  poor  child  that  I  found  and  kept  without  saying  anything  about  it,"  said 
Marie,  sadly.  "  Must  one  boast  of  a  good  deed  ?  And  they  killed  the  innocent 
while  I  was  out  raising  the  money  for  his  month's  nursing." 


The  Struggle.  273 

\ 

"I  know  your  devotion.  Jean  has  told  me  all,  dear  victim,"  answered  Camille, 
eagerly. 

Marie  continued: 

"I  could  not  make  a  merit  of  my  conduct,  and  they'have  made  it  a  crime." 

"Do  not  defend  yourself,"  cried  Camille,  "generous  martyr  of  the  rarest  and 
purest  love,  that  of  humanity.  What  are  the  goodness  and  the  beauty  of  the 
saints  beside  your  own,  dear  Marie,  you,  whose  religion  is  self-sacrifice?" 

"  Oh !  thank  you  for  those  words  of  esteem !  "  exclaimed  the  young  girl. 

And  Camille  said  passionately : 

"  Say  rather  of  love,  of  deep,  unchangeable,  eternal  love." 

"  Ah !  Monsieur,  do  not  use  such  words  to  a  poor  girl  accused  as  I  am.  You  be- 
lieve in  my  honor;  that  is  enough." 

"Though  you  should  be  condemned,  I  would  believe  in  you  as  in  the  light  of 
day,  and  I  would  prove  it  to  all.  I  would  raise  you  up,  fallen  and  branded  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world,  but  all  the  higher  and  more  noble  in  mine,  heroine  of  duty. 
And,  in  spite  of  the  law,  I  would  still  give  you  what  I  have  promised  you,  all  that 
I  have  left,  the  name  borne  by  my  mother,  who  was  as  good  as  you  are.  I  would 
take  you  in  my  arms  and  say  proudly  to  the  world:  Marie  Didier  no  more;  I 
present  to  you  Madame  Berville.  But  never  fear,  I  shall  have  less  to  do.  This  is 
only  an  eclipse;  your  innocence  will  shine  out  like  the  sun,  and  you  will  go  out  of 
here  as  radiant  to  all  as  to  me." 

"The  same  after  as  before  imprisonment?"  said  Marie,  joyfully  clasping  her 
hands;  "ah  !  I  am  too  well  rewarded." 

Camille  continued  with  increasing  warmth  : 

"After,  before,  always,  and  everywhere;  and  I  come  here  to  tell  you  so  as  if  you 
were  at  home." 

Then,  after  a  pause,  he  added : 

"Now  it  is  I  who  am  not  worthy  of  you,  Marie,  I  who  have  nothing  left  to  offer 
you,  not  even  wealth  with  which  to  pay  for  so  much  virtue." 

He  looked  at  her  steadily. 

"  Marie,  I  am  as  poor  as  you." 

"  O  happiness  I "  she  cried,  with  involuntary  joy,  as  she  grasped  his  hands.  But, 
suddenly  repressing  her  impulse,  she  said : 

"  Pardon  me,  Monsieur ! " 

"I  resemble  you  at  least  in  that,"  went  on  Camille.  "On  leaving  you  yesterday 
I  wrote  to  the  baron,  breaking  off  my  engagement  and  calling  for  an  account. 
His  reply  informs  me  of  my  ruin,  while  leaving  me  the  choice,  he  says,  between 
poverty  with  you  and  a  million  with  Claire." 

He  smiled  and  continued : 

"Much  obliged  I  Contentment  is  better  than  a  million.  My  choice  is  made ; 
but  it  is  your  turn  to  show  your  lofty  nature.  I  was  sincere,  T  swear  to  you,  when 


274  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

I  offered  you  my  fortune;  I  foolishly  supposed  that  I  still  possessed  it;  I  have  it 
no  longer.  I  have  been  obliged  to  confess  as  much  to  you ;  am  I  still  worthy  of 
you?" 

"Ah  I  even  more  so,  but  ".  .  .  . 

And  Marie  stopped,  seeming  to  hesitate. 

"But  what?"  asked  Camille. 

"  After  what  has  happened  to  us,"  replied  Marie,  gravely,  "  I  cannot,  must  not  be 
your  wife." 

The  surprised  young  man  looked  at  her  sorrowfully. 

"What  do  you  say,  Marie?" 

And  Marie  answered  in  a  tone  of  deep  sadness : 

"Camille,  dear  Camille,  I  loved  you  enough  to  sacrifice  myself  for  you,  but  I  love 
you  too  much  to  sacrifice  you  for  myself.  Be  free.  I  give  you  back  your 
promise." 

"  And  I  refuse  it,"  said  Camille.  "  That  would  convict  both  of  us  of  calculation 
and  cowardice.  Let  us  not  doubt  each  other,  dear  Marie;  in  spite  of  all  that  is 
blind,  fortune  and  justice,  we  are  united,  equals.  Your  pride  can  no  longer  re- 
proach my  wealth.  There  is  no  longer  any  difference.  I  shall  be  the  better  for  it 
....  remade  in  your  image,  living  by  my  own  efforts,  brave  in  consequence  of  your 
example,  well  sorted,  as  Jean  would  say.  Count  on  me.  We  will  work  together. 
My  courage  shall  emulate  yours.  Your  heart  shall  lend  activity  to  mine.  My 
hands  have  known  how  to  spend ;  they  shall  learn  how  to  save.  I  have  lost ;  I 
will  regain.  My  wife,  you  have  restored  me;  of  a  drone  you  have  made  a  man." 

"  He  takes  away  my  reason,"  said  Marie,  in  delight. 

Camille  concluded  in  a  fit  of  exaltation. 

"Love,  labor,  conscience,  these  are  our  possessions  I  We  are  rich.  No  more 
pleasures,  be  it  so!  But  happiness, — I  have  it  and  keep  it.  I  have  chosen,  I  tell 
you,  and  I  shall  tell  them  also,  without  delay  and  without  reply.  Au  revoir,  dear 
wife,  and  patience  1  Soon  I  will  take  you  away  from  here,  glorious,  to  our  hum- 
ble house,  grander  then  than  all  the  palaces  in  the  world,  for  happiness  will  dwell 
within  it." 

He  kissed  her  hands,  started  to  go,  and  returned  to  kiss  them  again. 

"Au  revoir"  said  he,  and  he  went  away. 

Marie  whispered  in  adoration : 

"  Noble,  noble  Camille,  always  the  same.  Renouncing  fortune  to  marry  me,  as 
he  risked  his  life  to  defend  me  I  How  shall  I  show  my  gratitude  for  so  much  love? 
What  joy  amid  my  pain!  My  prison  is  radiant !  How  happy  I  am  I  Too  happy, 
I  fear.  Trouble  has  not  killed  me ;  I  can  die  of  joy  I" 

"  Marie  Didier,  some  one  to  see  you,"  said  the  sister,  suddenly  returning.  And 
again  she  went  out,  to  introduce  this  time  Baron  Hoffmann. 

"Monsieur  Hoff".  .  .  .  exclaimed  Marie,  with  surprise  that  yras  mingled  with 
fear. 


The  Struggle.  275 

"Yes,  Marie,  I  come  to  see  you,"  said  the  baron,  good-naturedly. 

"You,  Monsieur?" 

"Yes,  to  serve  you,  if  I  can,"  continued  the  baron,  in  a  paternal  tone. 

"I  did  not  hope  for  that,"  exclaimed  Marie,  with  a  last  trace  of  distrust. 
"  Thank  you,  Monsieur." 

"  To  save  you,  if  you  will,"  continued  the  baron. 

"I  am  deserving  of  your  protection,  Monsieur,"  declared  Marie,  touched  and 
confiding ;  "  I  am  innocent." 

"Innocent  or  not,  it  doesn't  matter,"  said  the  baron,  in  a  voice  of  cajolery;  "I 
am  interested  in  Jacques  Didier's  daughter." 

But  Marie  answered  with  dignity : 

"If  you  mingle  a  doubt  with  your  benevolence,  pray  keep  itl " 

The  baron,  in  a  more  and  more  wheedling  way,  calmed  her  with  a  gesture. 

"Very  well,  then,  innocent.  Unfortunately  your  conscience  will  not  be  your 
judge.  Listen  to  me  carefully,  my  child ;  and  first  excuse  the  somewhat  hasty 
words  uttered  in  my  surprise  of  yesterday  and  the  rather  severe  ones  spoken  in  my 
frankness  today.  Examine  your  position  and  listen  to  reason.  To  be  and  to  ap- 
pear are  two  different  things  .  .  .  and  all  appearances  are  against  you  and  weigh 
fatally  upon  you.  Such  at  least  is  the  opinion  of  the  barrister  whom  I  have  en- 
gaged to  defend  you.  To  him  the  case  seems  doubtful,  the  adoption  suspicious, 
and  the  murder  certain.  Though  the  child  were  not  yours,  none  the  less  it  has 
been  killed;  and  some  may  believe  that  you  got  rid  of  it  after  obtaining  the 
means  to  bring  it  up.  Poverty,  conduct,  liaison,  victim,  you  have  been  getting  en- 
tangled in  a  net  of  disagreeable  circumstances;  beginning  with  the  ball  and  con- 
cluding with  the  visits  of  Camille,  which  still  do  you  harm;  and  now,  to  cap  the 
climax,  your  relations  with  the  murderer  of  your  father,  that  rag-picker,  Jean." 

"He,  Monsieur!  "  cried  Marie,  explosively;  "as  much  a  murderer  as  I  am." 

"And  arrested  as  you  are,"  said  the  baron. 

"Ah I  was  not  my  own  misfortune  enough?"  groaned  Marie,  falling  back  on 
her  chair. 

The  baron  resumed : 

"  All  this,  to  be  sure,  is  not  absolute  proof,  but  serious  presumption  which  makes 
the  crime  seem  real,  if  not  so,  and  punishment  probable,  if  not  sure.  Take  care! 
The  law  is  strict,  the  examination  painful,  and  justice  severe." 

"You  fill  me  with  despair,  Monsieur,"  exclaimed  Marie,  losing  her  head. 

"Such  is  not  my  intention,  but  the  contrary;  and  if  you  will  believe  in  my 
prudent  affection  for  you  and  aid  my  influence  by  a  little  confidence,  I  can  do 
something  for  you,  in  fact  a  great  deal ;  but  otherwise  nothing." 

Marie,  as  if  fascinated,  drew  closer  to  the  railing. 

"  I  am  listening,  Monsieur,"  said  she. 

"  In  a  case  so  suspicious,  the  lawyer  further  said,  the  better  way  is  not  to  defy 
justice,  but  to  soften  it." 


276  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"Justice  is  indulgent  to  the  repentant,  and  forgives  those  who  prove  their  re- 
pentance by  confession.  On  this  condition  you  can  obtain  your  pardon." 

"Monsieur,  I  ask  neither  pardon  nor  indulgence.  I  have  neither  confession  nor 
repentance  to  make,  for  I  have  committed  no  sin." 

"I  am  only  telling  you  what  the  lawyer  says.  And  he  answers  for  your  freedom 
at  that  price." 

"  At  the  price  of  my  honor  and  of  truth?    Never ! " 

"  Unhappy  girl  1  Fatality  is  stronger  than  truth  .  .  .  and  the  shame  lies  in  the 
crime,  not  in  the  confession.  Believe  me,  it  is  the  only  way  you  can  save  yourself. 
In  the  flood  in  which  you  are  sinking,  do  not  refuse  the  hand  that  is  offered  you. 
It  is  a  question  of  an  afflictive  and  ignominious  punishment,  —  death  perhaps,  im- 
prisonment at  least.  Confess,  and  poverty,  youth,  imprudence,  will  plead  in  your 
favor  .  .  .  but  against  you  if  you  deny.  Silence  means  punishment;  confession, 
salvation;  in  short,  imprisonment  for  life  or  liberty  and  prosperity.  .  .  Choose." 

"Thank  you,  Monsieur,  what  you  offer  me  is  worse  than  death,"  said  Marie, 
firmly. 

And  she  bowed  as  if  to  retire. 

"Well,  she  will  yield  nothing  for  her  own  sake;  let  us  see  if  she  will  for  his,'' 
said  the  baron,  aside. 

"  Very  well,"  he  continued  aloud  ;  "  if  you  will  not  save  yourself,  surely  you  will 
save  Camille?" 

"Monsieur  Berville?"  exclaimed  Marie,  eagerly. 

A  gleam  of  joy  flashed  through  the  baron's  eye. 

"You  love  him,  do  you  not?" 

"  More  than  all  the  world." 

"And  you  would  save  him  at  any  cost?" 

"  At  the  cost  of  my  life." 

"  Well,  you  are  ruining  him." 

"I?" 

"  You  1     For  your  sake  he  breaks  off  a  marriage  that  would  be  his  salvation." 

"  I  will  release  him  if  necessary,  Monsieur." 

"  Impossible.    He  will  remain  yours  as  long  as  he  believes  in  you." 

"What!  you  want  more?"  exclaimed  Marie,  in  terror. 

The  baron  came  straight  to  the  point. 

"Yes,  the  noblest  sacrifice  a  woman  can  make  to  the  man  she  loves.  Make  your- 
self forgotten  to  save  him.  He  loves  you  to  the  point  of  sacrificing  his  fortune  for 
you.  Equal,  surpass  his  love  and  devotion.  Confession  alone  can  restore  his  rea- 
son and  liberty.  I  esteem  you  enough  to  ask  it  of  you.  But  see,  Marie,  I  no 
longer  want  a  public  confession  .  .  .  no,  only  a  word  for  him,  in  time  to  save  him, 
and  then  to  be  destroyed ;  a  private,  provisional  word,  for  him  and  him  alone." 


The  Struggle.  277 

"  But  he,  my  God,  is  everything  to  me,"  said  Marie,  wringing  her  hands.  "He 
is  the  only  man  in  the  world  for  whose  esteem  I  would  give  my  life.  Others  may 
accuse  and  condemn  me,  if  I  remain  innocent  to  him.  Guilty  in  his  eyes!  Ac- 
cuse myself  in  his  presence !  No,  Monsieur,  insist  no  further.  It  is  beyond  my 
strength.  Besides,  it  is  useless  ...  he  would  not  believe  me." 

"He  loves  you,  then,  so  well?"  asked  the  baron,  in  a  hollow  voice. 

"As  I  love  him,"  said  Marie  simply. 

The  baron  rose  with  these  words : 

"Then  marry  in  the  prison  chapel.  It  is  a  favor  sometimes  granted  to  prisoners 
....  and  be  happy !  " 

Marie  recalled  him,  saying  in  a  voice  of  anguish : 

"  Ah !  strike  me  in  all  that  I  love,  but  do  not  rail  at  my  suffering." 

"I  do  not  rail,"  declared  the  baron,  very  gravely.  "lie  is  ruined,  dishonored, 
lost  .  .  .  confronted  by  imprisonment  for  at  least  five  years  for  debts  so  heavy  that 
they  will  be  accounted  robberies.  Here  is  the  summons.  Claire's  dowry  would 
save  him,  but  you  are  ruining  him." 

"Ah !  you  torture  me,"  cried  Marie,  beside  herself. 

"A  doctor  is  not  an  executioner,"  said  the  baron,  coldly,  "and  you  are  strong 
enough  to  endure  a  painful  remedy,  if  it  be  a  sal  utary  one.  Stronger  and  more 
prudent  than  Caniille,  weigh  well  my  last  words,  spoken  as  a  friend  in  your  interest 
and  his  own.  Let  us  suppose,  taking  the  most  favorable  view,  that  both  of  you 
were  free,  married,  happy.  How  long  would  it  last?  Do  you  suppose  that  love  is 
eternal?  Alas !  no  mo're  than  beauty.  Love  without  bread  is  short-lived,  and  his 
shorter  than  another's.  I  do  not  give  Camille  six  months  before  he  will  mourn 
the  loss  of  property,  rank,  society;  in  short,  to  regret  the  sacrifice  of  the  marriage 
of  reason  to  the  marriage  of  folly." 

"You  slander  him,  Monsieur,  and  if  you  had  heard  him".  .  . 

"Slander  him?  Impossible  1"  exclaimed  the  baron.  "You  esteem  him  too 
highly ;  you  judge  him  by  yourself.  I,  his  guardian,  know  him  better  than  you  do, 
this  spoiled  child  of  luxury  and  fashion,  a  real  butterfly,  charming  in  the  summer 
sunshine  ....  but  in  winter?  He  is  a  fickle  fellow,  as  well  as  a  prodigal  and  a 
good-for-nothing ;  his  purse  is  a  basket  with  a  hole  in  the  bottom,  like  his  heart. 
With  twenty  thousand  dollars  a  year  for  his  life  as  a  young  man,  he  owes  even  for 
his  shirts.  Judge  what  sort  of  a  husband  he  would  make.  He  would  send  For- 
tune to  the  hospital.  He  has  two  right  hands  with  which  to  spend,  two  left  hands 
with  which  to  keep,  and  not  one  with  which  to  earn  his  gloves.  He  work,  and 
go  hungry  in  the  bargain  1  Ah !  ah  1  a  democrat  in  theory,  but  an  aristocrat  in 
conduct.  He,  this  high-liver,  this  prodigal,  delicate  and  voluptuous,  indefatigable 
in  idleness,  insatiable  in  pleasure,  with  all  the  vices  of  his  class  and  sex,  the  ego- 
ism of  the  male  and  the  needs  of  the  rich,  minus  their  reason  and  power, — why! 
understand  what  I  say,  excess  is  his  rule,  abuse  his  order,  leisure  his  labor,  and 


278  TJie  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

the  superfluous  his  necessity.  He  live  a  life  like  yours  1  Nonsense  I  no  more  than 
you  could  live  his  I  You  have  not  the  same  tastes,  the  same  habits,  scarcely  the 
same  language.  Give  up  the  comforts  of  his  life  for  the  severities  of  yours! 
Never  1  He  may  say  so,  but  he  deceives  hi  mself  and  you!  Disabuse  your  mindl 
You  cannot  straighten  hunch-backs  at  his  a  ge.  It  runs  in  the  blood,  from  father 
to  sou.  Ahl  you  can  endure  misery,  you  poor  people  who  are  accustomed  to  it. 
But  with  us  it  is  different;  we  cannot  face  it  with  impunity.  Our  courage  does 
not  survive  our  love,  nor  our  love  our  prosperi  ty.  All,  goes  well  as  long  as  passion 
lasts.  But  some  day  or  other,  and  before  long,  too,  love  takes  wings,  poverty  re- 
mains, and  hatred  comes.  Hatred,  do  you  und  erstand,  Marie?  On  that  day  your 
paradise  will  be  a  hell,  your  honeymoon  a  moon  of  gall,  and  Camille  your  enemy. 
The  husband  will  avenge  the  lover's  decoys.  Unhappy,  he  will  blame  you  for  his 
misalliance  and  will  curse  you  for  having  g  iven  you  everything  and  received  no- 
thing, nothing  but  an  empty  love,  an  ephemeral  joy,  a  perpetual  dowry  of  ruin  and 
shame,  a  wife  who  has  been  dragged  through  the  courts  and  branded  with  that 
horrible  publicity  which  serves  as  a  stigma." 

The  voice  of  a  newsboy  was  heard  outside. 

"Just  out.     The  arrest  of  Marie  Didier".  .  .  . 

The  baron  calmly  looked  at  his  watch,  and  said  to  himself: 

"  Punctual ! " 

Then  aloud  and  solemnly : 

"Listen!" 

The  boy's  voice  rang  out : 

"  The  working-girl  of  the  Faubourg  Saint- An toine,  ace  used  of  killing  her  child, 
with  interesting  details.  One  cent." 

"Ah!  have  mercy,  my  God!"  cried  Marie,  in  delirium;  "I  am  going  mad." 

"It  is  the  red  iron,"  said  the  baron  ;  "the  mark  cannot  be  effaced." 

"You  are  killing  me,"  she  said,  in  fear. 

The  baron  went  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  introduced  his  daughter. 

"  Ah  1  come  and  help  me  to  save  them,"  said  he. 

And  in  a  low  voice : 

"  Apply  the  finishing  stroke." 

Claire,  as  white  as  a  statue,  advanced  with  repugnance. 

"Marie,  I  have  come  here  with  my  father  to  advise  you.  Being  a  patroness  of 
this  establishment,  I  wanted  to  inspect  your  room  and  do  everything  in  my  power 
to  make  your  position  more  endurable  ".  .  .  . 

After  a  pause  and  upon  an  encouraging  gesture  from  the  baron,  she  went  on : 

"I  come  to  console  you,  or  rather  to  weep  with  you  ....  and  I  hope  that  in 
following  my  father's  advice"  .... 

"  And  you  too  "  said  Marie  overwhelmed ;  "you  believe  me  guilty?" 

"I  believe  you  unfortunate,"  said  Claire,  with  embarrassment,  "and  I  desire  to 


The  Struggle.  279 

put  an  end  to  y»ur  troubles  .  .  .  .  but  I  see  no  other  way  ....    Be  resigned!" 

"I  have  already  told  Monsieur  that  I  was  not  an  obstacle  to  your  happiness," 
answered  Marie,  gently. 

"My  happiness,"  replied  Claire,  sadly.  "  Listen  to  me  as  I  speak  to  you,  with  the 
self-denial  that  heaven  imposes  on  us  both.  Do  as  I  do.  Be  resigned  for  Camille's 
sake.  It  is  not  a  question  of  my  happiness,  but  of  his;  do  not  envy  me;  I  shall 
not  be  a  happy  and  triumphant  rival,  but  a  victim  more  unfortunate  than  your- 
self. For  you  love  him  and  I  do  not." 

"  Ah ! "  exclaimed  Marie,  with  surprise  mingled  with  joy. 

Claire  continued: 

"  Yes,  we  both  sacrifice  ourselves  for  a  man  who  does  not  love  me  and  who  loves 
you.  Which  of  us  is  the  more  unfortunate?  You  leave  him  and  I  take  him. 
Whose  lot  is  the  harder  ?  Yet  I  obey,  I  yield  to  my  father,  who  desires  Camille's 
safety  and  your  own  even  at  such  a  cost.  Let  us  unite  in  self-sacrifice.  For  wo- 
men on  this  earth,  in  France  as  in  India,  everywhere  and  always,  there  is  nothing 
but  sacrifice.  Our  lot  is  to  immolate  ourselves  alive  for  our  lords  and  masters  ".  .  . 

Taking  her  hands,  she  concluded  : 

"  Poor  sister,  let  us  submit." 

And  Marie  answered,  in  delirious  exaltation  : 

"  Yes,  Mademoiselle,  we  will  save  him,  we  will  save  him  I    Everything  for  himl " 

And  she  fled  in  bewilderment. 

"  Good,  good,  Marie ! "  cried  the  delighted  baron ;  "  both  of  you  are  saved." 

He  added  in  Claire's  ear : 

"And  so  are  we;  come  away." 

Claire  followed  him  with  a  feeling  of  indescribable  horror. 

"The  torture  is  over,"  said  she.    "Let  us  carry  off  our  forceps." 


280  The  Rag-Picker  ef  Paris. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THIKTY  THOUSAND   FRANCS ! 

The  next  morning  the  bells  of  the  Conciergerie  awakened  Jean,  sobered  but 
overwhelmed.  With  effort  he  recalled  all  the  incidents  that  had  led  to  his  arrest, 
and  thought  a  little  of  the  charge  against  himself  and  a  great  deal  of  that  which 
kept  Marie  in  Saint  Lazare. 

He  had  no  time  to  become  absorbed  in  his  reflections,  for  municipal  guards  came 
to  take  him  to  the  Bureau  of  Judicial  Delegations. 

Thus  the  rag-picker  again  found  himself  in  the  office  of  the  commissary  who  had 
arrested  Marie.  Only  the  secretary  was  present. 

Jean  sat  down  on  a  bench,  muttering  to  himself  and  against  himself  gross  in- 
sults interrupted  by  lamentations  for  Marie. 

At  last,  unable  longer  to  res  train  his  overflowing  heart,  he  turned  to  the  indif- 
ferent and  somewhat  astounded  guards,  and  said : 

"Ah!  yes,  my  braves,  worse  than  a  brute!  What  beast  drinks  to  ruin  its 
young?  And  I  ....  what  have  I  done?  While  my  daughter  was  suffering  and 
weeping,  I  forgot  her  and  got  drunk  as  of  old.  A  hardened  offender,  incurable, 
unpardonable!  Nothing  has  availed,  —  the  death  of  the  one,  the  imprisonment 
of  the  other,  or  my  own  oath,  —  the  oath  of  a  drunkard.  Who  has  drank  will 
drink.  That's  what  a  man  is!  A  vampire.  ...  I  have  drank  the  daughter's 
blood  as  well  as  the  father's,  and  mine  too.  ...  Oh!  when  she  finds  out!  It  is 
her  absence  too  .  .  .  the  chagrin,  the  pain,  the  trick,  a  diabolical  temptation. 
Satanic  wine!  Scarcely  can  I  remember." 

And  rising : 

"  To  think  that  I  had  the  proof  in  my  ha  nd,  the  salvation  of  my  daughter,  my 
life.  ...  I  had  procured  it  so  successfully  from  the  old  woman  .  .  .  and  then  to 
restore  it  to  the  old  man!  It  is  too  much.  W  ine  has  stolen  everything  from  me, 
head  and  heart,  and  I  have  lost  everything.  .  .  .  Marie  as  well  as  Jacques  .  .  . 
and  Jean.  As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  it  is  all  right.  So  much  the  better,  yes,  but 
her!  Good  people,  aid  me!  What  shall  I  do?  What  can  I  say  now?  Without 
proof!  A  man  like  him  accused  by  a  man  like  me!  Rag-picker  against  banker 
....  a  penny  against  a  pound.  .  .  .  No  weight!  But  come,  come,  it's  no  time 
to  whine.  Some  way  must  be  found  to  save  the  girl  who  saves  others.  Where  ia 


The  Struggle.  281 

justice?  Where  are  the  police?  Where  is  the  good  God?  She  must  live  or  I 
must  diel  They  cannot  tear  my  chil  d  from  me,  my  heart.  They  cannot  condenm 
the  innocent  for  the  guilty,  whatever  the  devil  may  do ".  .  .  . 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  sudden  ope  ning  of  the  door  of  the  private  office, 

The  commissary  entered  and  gave  his  notes  to  the  secretary. 

"Ah!  Monsieur  commissary !"  cried  Jean. 

"Be  silent!"  said  the  commissary,  sitting  down;  "speak  only  in  answer  to  my 
questions." 

But  Jean  kept  on. 

"Monsieur  commissary,  you  arrested  yesterday  a  poor  innocent." 

"Come,  no  evasions,"  said  the  commissary. 

Jean  continued : 

"Marie  Didier".  ,  .  . 

"  Speak  for  yourself,"  said  the  commis  sary,  roughly.  "  You  are  accused  of  hav* 
ing  murdered  and  robbed,  on  the  Quai  d'Austerlitz,  twenty  years  ago,  Jacques 
Didier,  M.  Berville's  collector." 

"  Monsieur,  I  swear  to  you  that  she  is  innocent." 

The  commissary  grew  angry. 

"  That  is  not  what  you  are  asked.  Do  not  meddle  with  the  affairs  of  others,  It 
is  a  question  of  yourself." 

"Innocent  as  the  poor  dead  child,"  insisted  Jean.     "I  will  prove  it." 

"Don't  you  hear  what  is  said  to  you?"  exclaimed  the  magistrate,  rising, 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Jean,  with  his  fixed  idea. 

"You  are  accuse^  of  murder,"  repeated  the  commissary. 

"  All  right ! "  acquiesced  Father  Jean. 

"  Followed  by  robbery  ".  .  .  . 

"All  right  1  all  right  I  my  commissary,  I  will  justify  myself,  that's  -all  right! 
Don't  disturb  yourself  about  me ;  there  is  no  hurry  on  that  score.  It's  for  her  that 
we  need  to  hurry,  for  her,  waiting  to  be  freed." 

"You  exhaust  my  patience,"  cried  the  commissary,  angrily.  "It  is  you,  Jean, 
you  alone,  who  are  in  question  here." 

"  We  will  see  about  that  later,  my  magistrate.  Let  us  go  ahead,  if  you  please. 
They  want  to  ruin  her,  I  want  to  save  her.  They  accuse  me  now  in  order  to  upset 
my  plans.  The  old  wolf  throws  off  the  dogs.  .  .  I  know  your  trick,  baron.  But 
I  do  not  lose  the  scent.  It  is  not  a  question  of  me,  I  tell  you,  but  of  her." 

And  with  feeling  he  added : 

"Remember,  Monsieur,  it  is  already  two  days,  two  centuries,  that  she  has  been 
in  prison,  that  I  have  not  seen  her,  that  they  prevent  me  from  seeing  her,  because 
she  is  not  my  daughter.  Ah!  if  I  have  not  the  honor  to  be  her  father,  I  have  the 
duty.  Children  of  the  heart  are  well  worth  the  others.  They  are  never  aban- 
doned, Monsieur," 


282  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"Once  more,  that  is  not  the  question,  and".  .  . 

"Beg  pardon,  ray  magistrate;  don't  g  et  angry.  I  would  not  like  to  fail  you  in 
her  case  or  mine.  I  repeat,  I  ramble ;  that  I  know  very  well.  .  .  but,  see  here,  I 
tell  you  squarely  that  I  will  not  defend  myself  until  she  has  been  disposed  of.  If 
I  did  not  first  save  my  daughter,  my  family,  all  that  is  left  to  this  poor  old  heart 
of  sixty  years,  it  would  not  pay  to  live." 

And  the  rag-picker  continued  passionately: 

"If  I  do  not  save  her,  Monsieur,  I  have  committed  all  the  murders,  all  the  rob- 
beries, all  the  crimes,  of  the  Code.  Have  no  fear,  I  am  guilty;  I  have  done  every- 
thing, killed,  pillaged,  what  you  will.  To  save  her  I  will  suffer  myself  to  be 
accused,  condemned,  executed,  for  then  I  shall  not  have  robbed  her;  but  I  would 
guillotine  myself  if  I  should  fail  to  save  her." 

"This  devil  of  a  man  speaks  in  a  tone  that  moves  me  in  spite  of  myself,"  said 
the  commissary,  aside. 

And,  aloud,  he  added : 

"But  how  can  you  prove  her  innocence,  since  she  has  confessed?" 

"Confessed!"  exclaimed  Jean. 

The  commissary  exhibited  a  letter. 

"Yes,  in  this  letter  written  to  her  protector,  M.  Hoffmann,  and  seized  in  the 
clerk's  office  in  the  prison." 

Jean  tried  to  take  the  letter  quickly. 

"It  is  not  true,"  he  cried. 

"Wretch,  what  are  you  doing?"  said  the  commissary,  severely,  as  he  drew  back 
the  letter  out  of  Jean's  reach.  • 

"  Some  new  trick  1 "  said  Jean,  "  some  sacrifice,  some  stupidity  that  1  don't  un- 
derstand 1  But  it's  false,  my  magistrate.  Her  protector,  he!  Oh!  come,  come! 
She  is  so  weak,  you  see,  so  good,  so  simple  ....  a  lamb.  She  has  no  defender. 
They  have  got  around  her  in  some  way.  They  have  played  it  well  on  Father  Jean ! 
But,  though  she  confesses,  I  do  not  confess.  Believe  me,  hear  me,  help  me,  Mon- 
sieur. I  know  the  guilty  ones.  I  had  the  proof,  a  genuine  proof  which  they  have 
taken  from  me,  the  monsters,  —  an  infernal  stroke.  If  I  should  name  them  with- 
out proof,  you  wouldn't  believe  me.  I  want  proof.  ...  I  will  have  it." 

He  stopped  a  moment,  and  then  suddenly  broke  out  again. 

"  I  have  it  I    I've  got  them.  .  .  .    Yes,  I  see  the  way  already." 

"  Really?    What  is  it  ?  "  asked  the  magistrate,  in  surprise. 

"Lend  me  thirty  thousand  francs,"  exclaimed  Jean,  impetuously. 

"What!  thirty  thousand  francs?"  repeated  the  astounded  commissary.  "Are 
you  mad?" 

"Not  yet.    Can  you  get  them  for  me?  " 

"But  you  are  laughing  at  me?" 

"The  government  can  easily  find  thirty  thousand  francs  for  her,"  said  Jean, 
confidently. 


The,  Struggle.  288 

"  Enough !     We  are  not  here  to  joke." 

"  Ah  I  Monsieur,  I  do  not  joke,"  said  Father  Jean,  sorrowfully ;  "  I  have  no  desire 
to  do  so.  One  doesn't  make  sport  of  a  child  in  prison." 

"For  the  last  time,  speak  seriously,  or  else  ".  .  .  . 

"But  I  tell  you  seriously  that  I  must  have  thirty  thousand  francs  to  save  her." 

"Well,  you  are  either  a  lunatic  or  a  knave,  and  I  will  teach  you".  .  .  . 

"  Oh !  fear  nothing,"  Jean  hastened  to  protest.  "  I  don't  want  to  run  away  with 
.  .  .  and  her,  then?  " 

And  he  continued  pathetically : 

"Once  more,  Monsieur,  if  I  should  not  save  her,  I  would  ask  your  permission  to 
die  before  she.  .  .  .  But  I  would  not  want  the  miserable  sum  of  thirty  thousand 
francs  for  not  saving  virtue  itself.  You  will  not  refuse  me  the  money.  .  .  I  will 
not  spend  it  ...  you  shall  hold  it  in  your  hands  all  the  time." 

Again  the  magistrate  interrupted  him,  seeming  to  be  interested. 

"  But  what  do  you  wish  to  do  with  the  money  ?  " 

"Ah!  that's  my  secret,  I  don't  dare  to  think  of  it  myself.  I'm  afraid  that  I 
may  injure  it  by  breathing ;  for  it's  the  only  means  left  to  me.  But  you  shall  come 
with  me,  you  or  your  agents,  as  you  please ;  you  can  have  your  whole  force  follow 
me." 

"  Decidedly,  this  is  some  game,  either  to  escape  or  to  gain  time.  Let  us  end  the 
matter." 

And,  designating  Jean  to  the  guards,  the  commissary  said: 

"  Take  this  man  to  prison. " 

Jean  fell  on  his  knees. 

"  Ah !  Monsieur,  I  never  prayed  to  any  one  in  my  life,  and  I  am  at  your  feet.  I 
supplicate  you  with  both  hands,  on  both  knees.  Hear  me !  In  the  name  of  all 
that  you  hold  dearest,  I  am  telling  you  the  pure  truth.  The  garment  does  not  make 
the  monk.  One  is  not  guilty  because  he  is  poor,  or  innocent  because  he  is  rich. 
She  who  casts  away  her  child  goes  to  the  altar ;  she  who  picks  it  up  goes  to  prison." 

The  commissary  made  a  sign  to  the  guards,  and  they  seized  Jean. 

"Ah!  these  people  of  justice !     Like  justice,  they  are  deaf  and  blind ! " 

And  in  a  heart-rending  voice  he  added : 

"Monsieur,  Monsieur,  I  hold  you  responsible  for  any  misfortune  that  may  befall 
two  poor  innocents." 

But  suddenly  he  uttered  a  cry  of  joy.    Camille  had  just  entered. 

"Ah!  salvation!"  he  cried.  "  You  certainly  have  thirty  thousand  francs  at  your 
disposal,  Monsieur?" 

"Why?"  asked  Camille. 

"You  still  love  Marie?" 

"  I  forgive  her. " 

"What!     Then  you  believe  her  guilty?"  exclaimed  Jean, 


284  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

And  Camille  answered,  in  a  voice  of  anguish : 

"I  wish  I  could  still  doubt,  after  her  confession  ".  .  .  . 

"He  too!"  said  Jean;  "love  as  well  as  justice.  She  has  only  me  left.  Ah!  if 
I  should  fail  her.  ...  No  matter,  are  you  willing  to  save  her  ?  " 

"Willing?    Her  confession  at  least  redeems  her  fault  and  merits  forgiveness." 

"  Ah !  what  does  he  say?  "  cried  Father  Jean,  with  mingled  grief  and  indignation. 

Camille  addressed  the  commissary. 

"Yes,  Monsieur,"  said  he,  "I  come  to  speak  for  her.  You  are  one  of  those  juet 
men  who  cannot  be  seduced  by  gold,  but  by  misfortune  .  .  .  and  what  misfortune 
worthier  of  pity  1  For  in  spite  of  the  confession,  I  still  doubt  the  crime.  Do  as  I 
do,  Monsieur;  doubt  also,  in  spite  of  this  letter,  dictated  in  some  moment  of  mad- 
ness. Poor  girl,  her  imprisonment  has  crazed  her.  .  .  That's  it.  Oh  I  before 
believing  her,  I  must  see  her,  speak  to  her,  know  the  solution  of  this  cruel  enigma. 
The  baron  has  visited  her;  there  has  been  some  fraud,  some  wrongful  pressure 
brought  to  bear,  in  view  of  a  certain  marriage,  upon  her,  upon  her  noble  heart,  her 
love,  and  her  devotion  to  me.  She  has  sacrificed  herself  to  release  me,  to  save  me 
from  ruin.  This  will  prove  the  explanation,  I  am  sure.  Yes,  Monsieur,  I  swear  it; 
I  doubt  no  longer;  I  am  familiar  with  guilty  natures,  with  ruined  women ;  and  I 
declare  that  she  is  honor  itself,  incarnate  sacrifice ;  this  confession  is  the  best  proof 
of  it;  she  is  the  worthy  daughter  of  a  brave  servant  of  my  father,  and  I  cannot 
tell  you  all  the  esteem  that  she  merits.  No,  she  is  not  guilty.  It  isn't  possible- 
Day  is  not  night.  This  old  man  is  right.  He  alone  appreciates  her  as  she  deserves. 
He  believes.  Ahl  pardon  me,  dear  Marie,  for  having  doubted  for  a  moment. 
Thank  you,  Father  Jean,  for  having  restored  my  faith,  my  hope,  my  love. " 

Jean,  who  had  devoured  Camille's  words,  embraced  him  passionately. 

"Good!  That's  it!  You  are  right  .  .  .  yes,  she  is  an  angel  on  earth  .  .  .  and 
I  will  prove  it  in  spite  of  the  letter.  " 

"You,  my  friend?"  exclaimed  Camille,  with  joy. 

Jean  returned  to  his  queer  request. 

"  Give  me  .  .  .  no,  lend  me  .  .  .  no,  entrust  to  me  thirty  thousand  francs  for  a 
day,  an  hour,  a  minute,  and  I  will  show  her  to  both  of  you  as  white  as  snow." 

"If  that's  all,"  exclaimed  Camille,  enthusiastically;  "  why,  I  would  give  the  world 
for  her.  1  will  get  the  money,  I  will  have  it." 

"Go  after  it,  then,"  cried  Jean,  impatiently,  and  pacing  back  and  forth. 

"Their  confidence  is  telling  on  me,"  said  the  commissary  to  himself. 

Jean  led  away  the  departing  Camille. 

"But  aot  a  word  there,  at  the  baron's  1  Keep  on  in  your  present  course,  with  a 
melancholy  air,  and  pretend  that  you  are  going  to  marry  the  other.  Don't  let  them 
suspect  anything.  Consent  to  everything!  And  tomorrow  I  will  restore  you 
your  wife  and  recover  my  daughter  .  .  .  provided  Monsieur  allows  me,"  he  added, 
humbly  bowing  to  the  commissary. 


The,  Struggle. 

"  Well,  all  right  I  "  said  the  latter,  coming  to  a  decision.  "  I  have  seen  so  many 
odd  things  in  the  exercise  of  my  functions.  I  must  reject  no  method  of  getting  at 
the  truth." 

Camille  shook  hands  with  the  rag-picker,  and  started  off  on  a  run. 

"Ah!  thank  you!  thank  you!  Monsieur  commissary,"  said  Jean.  "You  have 
done  well!  Justice  for  all!  But,  Monsieur,  one  more  favor.  Let  me  speak  and 
act  in  my  own  fashion.  Trust  to  me  to  the  end  ...  we  have  cunning  enemies  to 
deal  with,  you  see.  You  are  very  sharp,  I  know..  .  .  but,  pardon  me, — I  mean 
no  offence, — in  this  case  I  am  even  sharper  than  you  are.  I  see  this  matter  more 
clearly  than  any  one  else;  I  see  it  from  the  heart.  So  promise  that  you  will  not 
interfere  with  me,  and  I  swear  that  I  will  deliver  to  you  three  guilty  parties  for 
two  innocent  ones  ...  a  good  bargain  for  a  just  man  like  yourself!  My  poor 
daughter,  I  love  her  so  dearly  that  I  shall  succeed.  1  shall  leave  Vidocq  entirely 
in  the  shade." 

And  kissing  the  commissary's  hands,  he  added: 

"  Till  tomorrow,  Monsieur !     And  may  your  kind  heart  reward  you ! " 

He  ^returned  to  his  place  between  the  two  guards,  and,  taking  their  arms,  at  a 
gesture  of  the  commissary  he  went  out,  leading  them  after  him. 


286  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  VIL 

THE    GUNS. 

Father  Jean  went  back  to  the  Conciergerie  as  if  he  were  going  home,  free  from 
anxiety  and  alcohol,  balanced,  solid,  full  of  confidence,  —  himself  again,  in  a  word. 

He  went  to  bed  and  rose,  satisfied  with  what  he  had  done  and  with  what  he 
was  going  to  do,  filled  only  with  impatience  to  finish. 

Chaumette  and  Bonnin,  meeting  him  in  the  yard  again,  could  not  get  over 
their  surprise  at  the  change. 

"So,  it  seems  that  things  are  going  better,"  cried  the  young  workman  making 
room  for  him  in  the  sunshine  beside  the  old  man. 

The  latter  inquired  in  his  turn. 

"  Then  you  have  found  your  daughter  again  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  have,"  said  Jean ;  "  found  her  and  saved  her,  or,  at  least,  as  good  as 
that.  I  am  only  waiting  now  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  again.  Oh  1  my 
heart  is  big  with  joy." 

"So  much  the  better  I  .  .  .     But  that  is  not  the  case  with  me,"  said  Chaumette. 

"Let's  hear,  what  is  it?"  said  the  rag-picker,  moved.  "Who  knows?  I  am 
having  a  streak  of  success.  .  .  .  Speak  1  If  I  could  serve  you.  I  make  a  speci- 
alty of  salvations,  good  and  bad;  have  confidence.  We  are  of  the  same  age".  .  . 

"And  have  the  same  misfortune.  .  .  Well,"  added  the  old  workman,  "  I  too 
have  a  daughter  .  .  .  but  the  Public  Charities  alone  know  where  she  is,  for  I  had 
to  abandon  her  ".  .  .  . 

"  Abandon  her  I  "  said  Jean,  severely. 

"  Oh  1  it  was  not  my  fault.  It  was  necessary.  Her  mother  carried  away  the 
milk  to  her  grave.  If  I  could  have  nourished  her  with  my  blood.".  .  . 

"  I  know,"  murmured  Father  Jean,  softened.  "  Marie  too  came  near  falling 
into  their  clutches.  .  .  Yes,  those  Public  Charity  people,  1  know  them  .  .  .  they 
are  executioners  I  What's  to  be  done  ?  " 

"  My  poor  Marianne,"  groaned  Chaumette,  sorrowfully. 

"  Marianne  1 "  repeated  Bonnin  ;  "  a  famous  name,  my  faith  !  " 

"Yes,  Marianne  Chaumette,"  repeated  the  old  man.  "  But  they  must  have 
rechristened  her  before  burying  her." 

Bonnin,  touched  by  the  old  man's  pain,  gave  voice  to  a  hope. 


The  Struggle.  287 

"  Bah  1  it  is  only  mountains  that  never  meet.  Perhaps  by  taking  steps  ...  to- 
day, under  the  Republic  ".  .  .  . 

"  The  Republic ! "  exclaimed  Chaumette,  bitterly  ;  "  still  and  always  « the  best 
of  Republics.'  Yes,  I  have  taken  all  the  steps  and  been  to  all  the  Charity  offices. 
And  nothing  ...  it  is  finished  ...  I  shall  never  see  my  child  again.  And  now 
I  have  but  one  idea  in  my  head." 

"  What's  that  ?"  asked  Bonnin. 

"  I  returned  to  the  pawnshop  under  the  Republic  as  under  Royalty ;  and  once 
more  I  was  obliged  to  pawn  my  hammer  and  even  my  two  guns  ".  .  .  . 

"Two  guns?" 

"  Yes,  I  had  two  after  February.  One  I  snatched  from  a  royal  guard  in  July, 
and  the  other  from  a  municipal  in  February." 

"I  understand,"  answered  Boniiin. 

"  Well,  I  should  like  to  redeem  them  before  dying  and  make  use  of  them  a  last 
time  against  those  who  are  starving  the  people  and  ruining  the  Republic.  For,  at 
the  rate  at  which  we  are  going,  the  Empire  is  not  far  off.  The  faubourgs  are  al- 
ready full  of  friends  of  the  pretenders,  who  are  gradually  taking  from  us  the  con- 
sciousness of  our  rights  and  duties.  The  people's  heads  are  as  empty  as  their 
bellies.  Hunger  makes  one  yawn  and  sleep.  .  .  .  Poverty  leads  to  beggary  more 
than  to  the  barricade.  .  .  .  Our  masters  know  it  well.  .  .  .  But  never  mind! 
There  are  not  only  the  resigned  .  .  .  there  are  also  the  desperate.  Ah !  if  I  were 
only  out  and  in  possession  of  my  pawned  articles." 

"  You  shall  have  them,  be  sure  of  it,"  exclaimed  Bonnin,  enthusiastically.  "As 
soon  as  I  am  out,  I  shall  go  at  once  to  work ;  and  out  of  my  first  fortnight's  pay  I 
will  redeem  your  things  .  .  .  and  share  them  with  you." 

Brutus  Chaumette  looked  him  in  the  eye  for  a  moment,  and  then  drew  a  pawn- 
ticket  from  his  pocket  and  handed  it  to  him. 

"  There,"  said  he,  simply. 

Bonnin  took  the  paper,  put  it  in  his  pocket,  and  observed: 

"  But  say,  that's  not  all.    Where  and  how  shall  we  meet  later?" 

"True,"  said  Chaumette;  "I  am  under  arrest  as  a  vagabond.  I  shall  be  sen- 
tenced to  prison,  and,  after  the  expiration  of  my  term,  I  shall  be  sent  to  the  poor- 
house." 

"I  have  it,"  exclaimed  Father  Jean,  who,  though  thinking  of  Marie,  had  heard 
the  father  of  Marianne;  "you  have  no  abiding-place;  that's  the  reason  of  your  ar- 
rest, isn't  it?" 

"Yes;  what  then?" 

"  Tomorrow  I  shall  be  free ;  I  will  give  your  name  instead  of  mine  to  my  janitor, 
and  abandon  my  quarters  to  you.  I  warn  you  that  they  are  not  very  fine." 

Chaumette  looked  at  the  rag-picker  in  surprise. 

"  And  you  ?  "  said  he. 


:>8g  The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"I?  I?"  said  Jean;  "don't  trouble  yourself  about  me.  Here,  there  is  your 
address.  You  will  give  it  to  the  judge.  They  will  make  inquiry.  .  .  .  And  that 
will  go  as  on  wheels.  You  have  a  residence ;  then  you  have  committed  no  offence  1 " 

"  Thank  you,  I  refuse,"  said  Chaumette. 

"  And  your  guns,  my  brave  old  man?" 

"  True,"  said  Chaumette.    "I  accept,  but  not  for  long." 

Jean,  for  sole  reply,  pressed  his  hands. 

Just  then  the  voice  of  the  crier  was  heard. 

"  Jean,  rag-picker  1 " 

"  They  are  calling  me.  Victory  I  Very  sorry  ;  .  *  no,  excuse  me,  very  glad  to 
leave  you  in  order  to  save  you.  But  I  will  see  you  again  soon,"  he  cried,  as  he 
started  off. 

Then  reconsidering  and  returning,  he  said  to  the  old  workman  : 

"Stay,  I  forgot;  there's  the  key}  it's  the  top  floor,  the  attic.  Your  residence 
is  found ;  Boniiin  will  look  out  for  the  rest." 

The  young  man  applauded. 

"  Bravo  and  thank  you,  old  man,"  he  exclaimed. 

And  turning  toward  Chaumette  as  Jean  went  off,  he  added: 

"I  told  you  that  he  had  something  better  than  wine  in  his  belly.  Ah  1  the 
worthy  man  1  There  you  are,  saved  1 " 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Chaumette.     "  But  she  1 " 

And  taking  his  grey  head  in  his  worn  hands,  he  began  to  dream  again  of  his 
lost  child,  thus  satisfying  in  thought  his  unquenched  thirst  for  paternity;  that 
love  so  natural,  so  instinctive,  so  intense,  so  human,  considering  the  length  of 
human  infancy,  so  imperious  and  so  tenacious,  which  tortures  old  men  deprived 
of  posterity  by  their  fault  or  their  poverty,  just  punishment  of  the  rich  bachelor 
and  iniquitous  torment  of  the  poor,  in  a  society  founded  on  family  and  property. 


The  Struggle.  289 


CHAPTER  Vfll. 

PARADISK    FOR    SALE. 

Madame  Potard,  shaken  by  the  baron's  threats  and  without  news  from  Jean 
was  getting  ready  to  surrender  her  Paradise  to  another  maker  of  angels. 

Seated  before  her  desk,  she  wrote  and  soliloquized  thus  : 

"  Announcement.  Will  be  sold  for  cash,  because  of  departure  from  the  city,  a 
midwife's  establishment,  enjoying  a  large  and  fashionable  patronage,  very  profit- 
able, and  in  a  quiet  neighborhood.  The  books  alone  show  a  business  of  25,000 
francs  a  year,  to  say  nothing  of  the  transactions  that  do  not  appear  on  them. 
Madame  Petard's  name  may  remain  on  the  sign,  if  desired.  Address  the  Bureau 
of  Small  Advertisements." 

She  rang,  and  continued  her  soliloquy : 

"  Whether  the  business  is  sold  or  not,  I  have  enough  to  live  on,  and  I  save  my- 
self without  waiting  for  the  rest.  Farewell,  Paris,  rag-picker,  and  banker  1 " 

The  servant  entered,  announcing : 

"Monsieur  Jean  1 " 

"  Ah  1   let  him  come  in,"  exclaimed  Madame  Potard,  joyfully. 

Then,  aside : 

"  What  luck  !     I  was  beginning  to  despair." 

She  quickly  folded  up  the  note,  thrust  it  into  her  pocket,  and  rose  to  receive  the 
rag-picker. 

Father  Jean  entered  merrily,  accompanied  by  a  person  of  doubtful  aspect, 
though  well  kept,  —  heavy  side-whiskers,  heavy  gold  chain,  and  heavy  cane. 

"  Good  day,  Madame  Potard  ?  "  said  Jean,  amiably. 

His  companion  saluted  her  more  graciously  still. 

Madame  Potard's  face  darkened  a  little  at  sight  of  the  stranger,  in  spite  of  hi& 
gold  chain. 

She  expected  that  Jean  would  come  alone. 

"  Good  day,  gentlemen,"  said  she,  coldly ;   "  what  can  I  do  in  your  service?  " 

"It  is  in  your  service  that  I  return,  Madame,"  said  Jean ;  "you  see,  I  am  a  man 
of  my  word." 

"  Of  your  word  ?  "  repeated  Mme.  Potard,  pretending  not  to  understand. 

"  Yes,  I  come  to  settle,"  declared  Jean. 


290  The  Mag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"To  settle?"  repeated  Mme.  Potard,  as  innocently  as  if  she  had  just  fallen  from 
the  moon. 

Father  Jean  resumed : 

"  Why,  yes,  the  trick  is  played." 

"What  trick?" 

"  Suspicious  creature  I  you  can  speak  before  him,"  said  Jean,  pointing  to  the 
stranger.  "  He  is  acquainted  with  the  affair." 

His  companion,  in  corroboration,  exhibited  a  pocket-book  full  of  bank-bills. 

"  What  affair  ?  "  said  Mme.  Potard  again,  still  on  her  guard. 

"Oh  !  not  so  many  airs,"  exclaimed  Jean.  "You  needn't  be  afraid,  I  tell  you. 
Hold  out  your  hand ;  we  bring  you  your  share." 

"My  share?" 

Then  Jean  said  abruptly : 

"You  refuse  ?  ....    So  much  the  better  1  Good  evening,  Madame." 

He  turned  on  his  heel,  took  his  comrade  by  the  arm,  and  started  for  the  door. 

Madame  Potard  ran  after  them. 

" Eh  ?    What  is  it  ?    What  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  Nothing  I    Nothing  1    We  will  keep  the  whole,"  declared  Jean. 

Madame  Potard  was  sweating  big  drops. 

"One  moment  I "  she  exclaimed.  "Just  listen;  I  did  not  understand,  on  seeing 

you  two  so  unexpectedly ;  I  did  not  know  that  Monsieur Ah  1  he  is 

connected  with  the  affair  ?  " 

"It  was  necessary,  you  see,"  insinuated  Jean,  retracing  his  steps.  "I  was  not 
presentable,  in  my  pitiful  costume.  For  a  baron,  it  requires  a  Mossieu  ;  see,  this 
gentleman  is  a  Mossieu,  and  a  substantial  one." 

"  Oh !  Madame  understands,"  said  the  substantial  Mossieu. 

Jean  continued : 

"  So  I  took  a  partner  ....  with  a  black  coat,  as  capital.  A  black  eoat  and 
gloves,  —  with  those  everything  is  all  right." 

"I  perceive,"  said  Madame  Potard,  still  anxious. 

"We  come,  then,  dear  Madame,  to  make  an  honest  division  of  the  money,"  said 
Jean,  emphasizing  the  last  word. 

The  word  money  had  its  usual  effect  upon  the  midwife. 

"All  right,"  said  she,  thoroughly  enlightened.  "Better  late  than  never.  Be 
seated,  then." 

Jean  turned  to  bis  companion. 

"  Give  her  her  share." 

"Her  share  and  my  heart,"  said  the  partner,  gallantly  taking  Madame  Potard 
around  the  waist. 

Madame  Potard  quickly  released  herself,  saying  : 

"Oh  I  come,  come  1 " 


Struggle.  291 

And  seriously : 

"  How  much  ?  " 

Then  joyfully : 

"  And  to  think  I  had  given  you  up  1    May  one  offer  a  drop  to  these  gentlemen  ?" 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Jean. 

Madame  Potard,  however,  went  to  her  table  on  which  a  case  of  liquors  stood, 
saying  at  the  same  time  : 

"And  the  share?  ...    Is  it  large?" 

"  Why,  yes,  it  is  fat,"  said  Jean  ;  "but  with  three  of  us  ...  that  cuts  the  slices 
down  a  bit." 

"  How  much  then  ?  "  exclaimed  Madame  Potard,  in  a  disappointed  tone  and  seem- 
ing already  to  regret  the  three  full  glasses. 

Jean  replied  emphatically : 

"  We  have  drawn  from  the  baron  thirty  pretty  notes  like  those  he  paid  to  you. 
Your  health,  Madame  Potard." 

He  made  a  pretence  of  drinking,  but,  turning  around  a  little,  he  emptied  the 
little  glass  into  his  hat. 

"  Thirty  thousand  francs  !  "  cried  Madame  Potard,  disappointed. 

Jean,  pretending  to  misunderstand,  repeated  the  sum,  dwelling  on  each  syllable : 

"  Yes,  thir  ...  ty  ...  thou  .  .  .  sand  francs ! " 

"  It  is  little,"  exclaimed  Madame  Potard,  with  an  expression  of  disdain.  "  Is 
that  really  all  you  got  ?  You  rob  me  I  " 

"  Ah !  Madame  Potard,  for  whom  do  you  take  us?    Your  associates  1 " 

"  Then  fifteen  thousand  francs  for  me,"  declared  Madame  Potard  in  a  tone  that 
seemed  final. 

"  Ten,  my  good  woman;  there  are  three  of  us,"  said  Jean,  by  way  of  correction. 

But  the  midwife  would  not  listen. 

"  Not  at  all !  Nothing  of  the  kind !  I  want  fifteen  thousand  francs.  I  did  not 
agree  to  a  division  into  three  parts.  You  said  nothing  to  me  about  it;  it  was  on 
your  own  responsibility  that  you  took  a  partner.  So  much  the  worse  for  you. 
That's  your  lookout.  I  gave  the  letter  for  a  half,  not  for  a  third.  I  want  my 
half." 

"Greedy  creature !     And  what  about  us  then?" 

"  Divide  with  the  other ;  that  is  your  affair." 

"But  we  shall  have  nothing  but  the  crumbs." 

Madame  Potard  was  inflexible.  * 

"  It  is  not  my  fault,  really,"  said  she.  "  It  has  not  brought  enough.  You  have 
managed  it  badly.  I  thought  you  were  more  cunning.  With  such  a  secret  you 
ought  to  have  broken  the  bank." 

Jean  drew  nearer,  at  the  same  time  making  to  his  companion  an  imperceptible 
sign  that  escaped  Madame  Potard. 


292  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"We  did  our  best,"  he  declared. 

And,  lowering  his  voice,  he  asked : 

"  Then  you  really  got  but  twenty  thousand  francs  for  putting  the  child  into 
paradise." 

"  Hush ! "  exclaiuid  the  frightened  midwife. 

"  All  right,  let  us  say  no  more  about  it,"  said  the  rag-picker  in  a  conciliatory 
tone.  "  I  don't  wish  to  argue  the  point ;  perhaps  I  should  lose.  After  all,  it  is 
just,  and  if  we  were  not  honest  with  each  other.  ...  So  no  more  chicanery.  A 
bargain's  a  bargain.  My  friend  and  I  will  waive  this  point,  and  arrange  between 
ourselves  as  we  can.  You  must  have  half,"  he  continued,  while  the  unknown 
drew  the  notes  from  the  pocket-book  and  passed  them  to  him  one  by  one.  "  There 
you  are  I " 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  Madame  Potard,  softening  down.  "  The  good  friends. 
Received  I " 

Nevertheless  she  counted  the  notes  again. 

"  Fifteen  1  That  is  the  account.  Minus  two,  the  burned  ones.  ...  I  want 
those  also." 

The  rag-picker  feigned  anger. 

"  Ah !  You  ask  so  much  !  .  .  .  There,  glutton,  eat  the  whole  and  die,"  said  he, 
taking  the  rest  of  the  notes  and  almost  cramming  them  into  the  midwife's  mouth. 

"  Come,  let  us  not  get  angry,"  said  she.  "  In  business,  profit  and  loss,  you 
know." 

She  ran  to  put  the  precious  papers  in  her  desk,  mumbling : 

"  Twenty-eight  and  fifteen,  forty-three." 

Jean,  hearing  her,  said  with  a  laugh  : 

"  What  a  mathematician  !     A  nice  little  sum  for  a  rainy  day." 

"Not  enough,  all  the  same,"  sighed  Madame  Potard.  "Appetite  comes  with 
eating." 

"And  yet  it  will  be  all,"  declared  the  rag-picker,  with  an  air  of  regret.  "Fare- 
well, baskets.  No  way  of  returning  to  the  plate  without  a  spoon.  I  had  to  give 
up  the  proof  for  the  cash,  the  letter  against  the  money.  The  bird  will  sing  no 
more." 

"  How  do  you  know,  booby?"  said  the  midwife,  nudging  him  with  a  mysterious 
air  of  superiority.  "  As  well  be  hanged  for  an  old  sheep  as  a  lamb." 

Jean  pricked  up  his  ears. 

"  Oh  1 "  said  he,  "  if  you  still  have  something  left." 

"A  little,  my  nephew.     I  have  kept  a  pear,  in  case  I  should  be  thirsty." 

"  Far-seeing  woman  1  Seek  and  you  shall  find,"  concluded  Father  Jean,  seeing 
her  start  for  her  desk. 

"  Yes,  prophet,  two  trumps ! "  replied  Madame  Potard,  taking  a  paper  from  a 
drawer.  "By  way  of  precaution,  I  had  the  daughter's  letter  photographed.  I 
gave  the  copy  to  you  and  kept  the  original  myself.  See  1 " 


The  Struggle.  293 

Jean  pretended  to  succumb. 

"  Ah  !  for  that  stroke  I  marry  you  1 " 

"  The  original  is  well  worth  the  copy,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"Much  morel  Bravo  1  A  pair  royal  1  Another  thirty  thousand  francs  at 
least.  He  will  sing  the  entire  opera." 

"  Yes,  my  orchestra-leader,"  exclaimed  the  triumphant  midwife.  "  And  always 
half  for  me  1 " 

"Ah!  this  time,  my  queen,  it  is  different,"  objected  Jean.  "Now  there  are 
three  of  us.  We  must  consult  the  wishes  of  Monsieur." 

And  turning  to  the  associate,  who,  during  this  whole  scene,  had  been  duHib  but 
not  deaf,  he  asked: 

"What  do  you  say?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur,  what  do  you  say?"  echoed  the  midwife. 

The  stranger,  laying  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  answered : 

"  Madame  Potard,  in  the  name  of  the  law  I  arrest  you  for  the  crime  of  infanticide 
and  as  the  accomplice  of  Baron  Hoffmann." 

Madame  Potard  fairly  leaped,  while  the  officer  ran  to  the  door. 

"What's  this?    I?" 

"Yes,  you,  who  have  confessed,  proved,  given  all  the  proofs,"  shouted  Jean. 
"For  here  they  are,  all  in  hand  and  in  this  drawer,  letter  and  notes,  eight  of 
which  have  the  holes  made  by  my  hook.  See  !  "  he  continued,  addressing  the  police 
Agent,  who  called  two  other  officers  and  entrusted  the  midwife  to  their  care. 

The  agent  took  possession  of  the  contents  of  the  desk. 

"  It  isn't  true !  It  isn't  true ! "  screamed  Madame  Potard,  struggling.  "  Ah  1 
my  notes,  my  dear  notes  1 " 

"No  noise,"  said  the  agent.  "We  will  decamp  without  drums  or  trumpets. 
You  have  only  to  attenuate  your  crime  by  serving  justice  against  your  accomplices." 

In  spite  of  the  officers'  hold,  Madame  Potard  rushed  at  Jean,  shaking  both  her 
fists  at  him. 

"  Ah !  traitor!  spy!  it  is  you !  " 

The  rag-picker  bowed  in  a  unique  fashion,  saying: 

"  What,  no  more  love  ?  Yes,  rascal,  the  game  is  over.  You  will  make  no  more 
angels.  Paradise  for  sale ! " 

And  the  officers  took  the  woman  away, 


294  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE   COUNCIL. 

A  very  big  fish  for  a  police  commissary's  net  was  the  banker,  Baron  Hoffmann ; 
and.  even  under  the  Republic,  the  magistrate  hesitated  to  arrest  a  prince  of  the 
stock  exchange,  not  daring  to  treat  him  like  a  vulgar  assassin  without  first  con- 
sulting his  superiors. 

So  he  went  to  notify  the  prosecuting  attorney  of  the  Republic,  who  in  his  turn 
was  unwilling  to  take  the  responsibility  of  so  important  a  step  and  sent  him  to 
the  Minister  of  Justice,  who  referred  him  to  the  entire  government. 

In  the  same  way  Barabbas  passed  from  Anne  to  Ca'iphas  and  from  Caiphas  to 
Pilate,  before  being  arrested  as  the  Just. 

The  council  was  engaged  in  the  discussion  of  three  serious,  complex,  and  con- 
nected questions,  the  combined  solutions  of  which  were  destined  unhappily  to 
bury  the  Republic. 

These  questions  were : 

1.  The  Roman  war. 

2.  The  national  workshops. 

3.  The  return  of  Prince  Louis  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 

On  the  first  question  the  government  had  decided  to  send  the  mayor  of  Paris, 
Armand  Marrast,  to  Gaete  to  find  the  Pope  and  bring  him  to  France,  pending  his 
reestablishment  at  Rome. 

Which  would  favorably  dispose  the  priests  toward  the  Republic. 

On  the  second,  it  had  been  decided  that  the  national  workshops  should  be 
abolished. 

Which  would  favorably  dispose  the  employers  toward  the  Republic. 

On  the  third  point,  two  good  friends  of  the  prince,  Jules  Favre  and  Louis  Blanc, 
who  had  Bonapartist  leanings  from  sentiment  and  even  from  family,  —  at  least 
Louis  Blanc, — in  spite  of  the  secret  admission  made  to  them  by  the  prisoner  of 
Ham  that  he  wanted  the  Empire,  spoke  in  favor  of  the  pretender,  guaranteeing 
his  republicanism  and  saying  that  his  adhesion  and  return  would  result  in  the  sal- 
vation of  the  Republic. 

At  this  moment  the  Minister  of  Justice  introduced  the  commissary  of  police, 
who  propounded  the  fourth  great  question  of  the  day,  the  affair  of  the  banker, 
Baron  Hoffmann. 


The  Struggle.  295 

At  first  the  council  was  half  incredulous  and  half  scandalized,  but  in  face  of  the 
proofs  unfolded  one  by  one  by  the  commissary,  it  was  necessary  to  come  to  a 
decision,  solve  the  question  in  one  way  or  another,  execute  the  law,  or  else  evade 
it  by  conniving  at  the  escape  of  the  accused. 

Cremieux,  a  Jewish  lawyer,  full  of  metallic  affinities  and  Minister  of  Justice, 
was  for  connivance. 

Goudchaux,  another  Jew,  Minister  of  Finance,  was  obliged  to  hold  the  same 
opinion  through  esprit  de  corps. 

The  Minister  of  War,  Cavaignac,  for  several  reasons  obeyed  a  similar  con- 
science. A  sort  of  soldier-monk ;  a  Catholic  republican ;  dreaming  of  the  pre- 
sidency of  the  Republic  by  the  grace  of  the  Pope,  to  whom  Hoffmann  acted  as 
banker  through  the  Abbe  Ventron;  having  married  the  daughter  of  a  financier, — 
he  was  the  rising  sun,  the  hope  of  the  bank,  the  sword  of  capital  against  threatening 
labor,  a  dictator  readier  to  execute  starving  laborers  than  murderous  bankers. 

But  Lamartine,  one  of  the  troubadour  knights  of  the  Restoration,  puritanized 
also  by  his  "  History  of  the  Girondists,"  had  a  horror  of  Turcarets,  like  the  noble 
spendthrift  that  he  was. 

So  he  preluded  against  the  banker  with  one  of  those  guitars  that  he  played  so 
well.  He  sang  equality  before  the  law,  human  conscience,  republican  justice, 
etc., — the  whole  sonata  of  rights  and  duties,  —  concluding  democratically  that  it 
is  not  the  same  with  rascalities  as  with  negatives,  and  that  two  crimes  cannot 
make  an  innocent  man,  even  of  a  banker-baron. 

Albert,  the  workman,  Louis  Blanc,  the  Socialist,  and  the  Jacobin,  Ledru, 
formed  a  chorus  with  the  poet ;  and  in  spite  of  reasons  of  State,  Church,  and 
Bank,  in  spite  of  the  three-fold  interest  of  strong-box,  altar,  and  throne,  in  spite 
of  the  highest  political,  religious,  and  plutocratic  considerations,  by  a  majority 
of  one  vote  the  council  of  the  provisional  government  decided  that  the  banker, 
Baron  Hoffmann,  this  extraordinary  culprit,  must  submit  to  the  common  law, 
and  that  justice  must  take  its  course. 


The  Itag-Picker  of  fan*. 


CHAPTER  X. 

INTO   THE   BASKET  1 

Let  us  return  to  the  house  of  the  banker,  Baron  Hoffmann. 

Claire  has  yielded.  She  has  placed  her  heart  upon  the  altar,  sacrificing  herself 
to  save  her  father's  bank  and  honor.  Her  mind  is  made  up.  A  victim,  if  not  an 
accomplice,  she  will  marry  Camille. 

The  day  of  the  wedding,  of  the  holocaust,  has  arrived. 

In  an  elegant  boudoir  of  the  former  Hotel  Berville,  the  daughter  of  the  baron 
is  seated  before  a  swinging  mirror,  while  two  maids  arrange  her  bridal  costume. 

All  about  her  exhales  a  festival  perfume.  Through  the  half-drawn  portiere  at 
the  back,  the  illuminated  greenhouse  and  garden  shine  like  a  firmament. 

Claire,  resigned  and  swallowing  her  tears,  abandons  herself  mechanically  to  the 
care  of  the  two  soubrettes.  She  will  go  to  the  very  end. 

The  baron  entered,  with  a  beaming  face.  He  held  in  his  hand  a  copy  of  the 
"Official."  Embracing  his  daughter,  and  forcing  his  voice  to  a  caressing  tone  be- 
cause of  the  presence  of  the  maids,  though  he  did  so  with  some  difficulty,  he  said 
to  her: 

"So,  then,  this  is  the  day,  dear  rebel.  How  obstinate  the  female  mind  I  Sur- 
rendered, at  last! " 

He  kissed  her  again. 

"  Admirable  costume,"  he  added. 

Then  aside : 

"  Sparkling  stone,  flaming  robe  ....  let  us  complete  the  dazzling  spectacle." 

He  opened  his  journal  and  said : 

"Claire,  listen  to  this !  '  Society  Gossip :  This  evening,  by  privilege,  at  midnight, 
will  be  celebrated  at  the  chapel  of  the  Roman  Embassy,  by  Monseigneur  the 
Archbishop  of  Paris,  the  marriage  of  Mile.  Claire  Hoffmann,  daughter  of  Baron 
Hoffmann,  banker  to  the  Papal  Court.'  What  do  you  say  to  that?  what  a  fes- 
tival !  It  is  complete !  Hurry  your  maids,  and  be  ready ;  in  an  hour  friends  will 
be  here.  I  will  return." 

Claire,  before  her  mirror,  wearing  her  dress,  crown,  and  bouquet  of  marriage, 
of  martyrdom,  had  listened  without  hearing. 

When  her  father,  having  finished  his  reading,  started  to  go  out,  she  cried 
anxiously: 


The  Struggle.  297 

"  Where  are  you  going.     Do  not  leave  me.    I  don't  know  why,  but  I  tremble." 

She  rose  and  ran  toward  him. 

The  baron  retraced  his  steps,  and,  in  a  low  voice  and  a  tone  which  he  intended 
to  be  gay,  he  exclaimed : 

"Bah!  the  emotion  of  the  day,  dear  sensitive  creature!  Courage!  One  last 
stroke  of  the  oar  and  ...  in  an  hour  we  shall  be  in  port.  I  have  burned  your 
letter,  I  have  the  girl's  confession,  and,  to  complete  the  luck,  I  have  her  father's 
pocket-book,  a  fatal  proof  against  her  old  knight." 

"  Ah !  my  God ! "  exclaimed  Claire,  "  another  victim." 

"  The  last,"  said  the  banker. 

"When  will  end  this  defiance  of  justice?  An  accomplice  in  a  new  crime!  I 
will  not,  I  cannot.  You  put  too  much  upon  me.  ...  I  succumb." 

"  They  or  we  !  "  declared  the  baron,  implacable  in  his  logic.  "  It  is  necessary. 
Be  firm !  Audacity  to  the  end.  And  this  time  it  is  the  end." 

"It  is  hell!" 

"  It  is  the  salvation  of  all,  believe  your  father  and  friend.  I  swear  to  you  that 
I  will  save  them  after  ourselves.  Have  I  not  succeeded  in  everything?  No  more 
risks,  no  more  frights.  I  am  going  to  make  sure  of  the  departure  of  the  midwife. 
Calm  yourself.  .  .  .  Make  haste.  ...  I  will  return." 

And  with  these  words  he  went  out  by  a  side  door  opening  into  his  private 
apartments. 

Claire  remained  alone  with  her  maids,  nailed  to  the  spot  where  her  father  had 
left  her,  lost  in  a  mortal  presentiment. 

"It  is  salvation,"  she  resumed  in  a  very  low  voice.  "  But  at  what  price !  Great 
God !  To  hide  a  fault  under  a  crime  and  pile  victims  on  victims  .  .  .  and  myself 
the  last  one  .  .  .  after  the  others,  I  decked  today  for  the  altar  .  .  .  the  last  sacri- 
fice. Ah  I  I  dare  not  look  myself  in  the  face,  I  am  afraid  .  .  .  and  these  mirrors 
reflect  me  everywhere." 

She  took  a  few  steps,  trying  to  flee  from  her  own  image. 

"  Rosine,  my  veil !  "  said  she  to  one  of  the  servants.  "  Quick !  Folded  and 
pulled  down." 

"  Yes,  Mademoiselle,"  answered  Rosine,  running  to  find  the  veil. 

Claire  walked  up  and  down  in  agitation  and  impatience. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  she  murmured,  "  that  my  secret  is  written  in  letters  of  blood 
upon  my  brow,  and  that  it  will  be  less  easily  seen  under  these  folds  ".  .  .  . 

Rosine  and  her  companion  came  to  put  on  the  veil. 

"  Cover  me  more,  I  say." 

Then  suddenly,  as  if  bewildered : 

"  Is  there  not  a  spot  on  this  veil  ?  " 

"  A  spot ! "  exclaimed  Rosine,  astonished. 

"  Yes,  a  red  point  there," 


298  The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"  No,  Mademoiselle ;  it  is  the  reflection  of  the  curtains." 

"  Ah  I  yes,  you  are  right  .  .  .  leave  me  I  " 

The  attendants  obeyed  and  withdrew. 

"  I  shall  betray  myself,"  cried  Claire,  "  my  head,  my  heart,  are  bursting 

this  fatal  secret  will  out  in  spite  of  me.  It  is  escaping  by  force  like  those  poisons 
that  break  the  glass  that  contains  them.  ...  I  see  it ;  I  hear  it  cry,  ask  for  a 
oradle,  a  grave,  change  this  veil  into  a  shroud,  this  crown  into  a  pillory." 

Then,  resolutely ; 

"Visions!  Chimeras!  ...  to  be  forgotten  like  the  others.  No  more  anguish! 
I  must  share  my  father's  ferocious  delight  in  struggle,  the  atrocious  intoxication 
of  success.  Come !  audacity  to  the  end  1  This  secret  is  under  ground.  No  one 
knows  it  ...  can  know  it.  Crime  is  for  the  poor !  we  are  rich.  .  .  The  Didiers 
for  the  Hoffmanns  1  I  am  the  worthy  daughter  of  my  father.  We  are  hunters 
by  race.  Let  us  howl  with  the  wolves !  A  curse  upon  the  weak  1  Salvation  is 
for  the  strong ! " 

In  one  of  the  adjoining  rooms  were  exposed  to  the  gaze  of  a  crowd  of  guests 
invited  to  these  wedding  festivities  the  numerous  bridal  presents  which  the 
wealthy  and  vain  friends  and  customers  of  the  banker-baron  had  made  to  his 
daughter. 

Water  goes  always  to  the  river. 

It  was  a  dazzling  spectacle  of  luxury  and  art.  One  would  have  said  that  it  was 
a  collection  of  master-pieces  of  the  goldsmith's  art  at  an  international  exposition. 

Necklaces,  bracelets,  brooches,  and  rings,  ornaments  of  all  styles  and  all  prices 
in  caskets  that  were  jewels  themselves,  — all  that  the  great  jewelers  of  the  day, 
the  Meurices  and  the  Odiots,  all  that  the  rarest  stones,  cut,  set,  and  mounted  in  the 
finest  metals,  could  offer  in  the  way  of  perfection,  with  the  names  of  the  most 
illustrious  and  most  august  givers. 

The  Pope  had  sent  the  golden  rose,  —  an  exceptional  honor  reserved  for  queens, 
—  and  his  blessing,  more  precious  still. 

The  Nuncio  had  sent  a  silver  cross  studded  with  diamonds. 

And  the  Abbe"  Ventron,  the  dear  confessor,  a  brilliant  red  ruby,  representing 
the  heart  of  Jesus. 

The  ex-king  of  the  French  had  forwarded  from  London  an  India  cashmere ;  and 
the  ex-queen  what  is  called  a  household  article,  —  a  tea  service. 

The  English  ambassador,  a  practical  man,  had  presented  a  silver  gilt  chamber- 
vessel. 

All  the  nobility  and  wealth  of  Paris  were  represented  there  by  the  entire  seal? 
of  precious  stones,  —  yellow,  blue,  green,  emeralds,  turquoises,  topazes,  etc. 

Then  came  the  gifts  of  Canaille's  friends. 


The   Struggle.  299 

Lottchard,  among  others,  had  contented  himself  with  presenting  his  wife.  .  .  . 
a  pearl  of  friendship,  he  said. 

Loiseau  had  offered  the  bouquet  of  orange-flowers. 

As  for  Gripon,  his  gift  shone  by  its  absence. 

There  was  everything  besides,  as  is  the  case  with  those  who  can  want  for  no- 
thing, from  toilet  articles  to  kitchen  utensils, —  and  the  smallest  lot  among  them 
would  have  been  a  dowry  for  a  Didier, — each  object  being  surveyed,  handled,  cri- 
ticised, and  estimated  according  to  the  taste  of  the  amateurs.  .  .  . 

The  last  pin  had  been  put  in  the  bride's  veil. 

Then  Laurent  entered  the  boudoir  and  said  respectfully: 

"They  are  waiting  for  Mademoiselle  in  the  grand  salon" 

Claire  turned  round,  and  surfeited  though  she  was  with  the  palatial  luxury  of 
the  paternal  dwelling,  she  felt  a  dizziness  of  pride,  and  staggered  again  under  the 
spell. 

The  portiere  at  the  back,  drawn  aside  by  Laurent,  allowed  a  view  of  the  apart- 
ments infinitely  multiplied  by  the  reflection  of  skilfully  placed  mirrors.  Women 
in  full  dress  and  lackeys  in  livery  were  streaming  with  gold,  flowers,  feathers,  and 
jewels  under  the  chandeliers ;  here  and  there  the  men,  sober  and  stiff  in  their  of- 
ficial dress-coats,  offered  a  contrast  of  black  in  this  glittering  crowd.  .  .  .  Claire 
advanced  bravely  into  the  grand  salon  toward  the  guests,  like  the  goddess  of  this 
fashionable  Olympus,  the  millionaire  Venus  of  All-Paris,  and  received  resolutely 
all  the  homage  that  a  great  lady  can  desire,  the  admiration  of  men  and  the  envy 
of  women. 

Everybody  smiled  and  flattered,  bowing  like  a  veritable  subject.  .  .  .  But  sud- 
denly there  was  a  movement  of  recoil  and  fright. 

Rosine  came  running  in,  pale,  out  of  breath,  and  voiceless,  approached  Claire 
hastily,  and  whispered  in  her  ear  a  word  that  made  her  tremble  from  head  to  foot. 

Suddenly  through  an  open  door  entered  without  ceremony  the  police  commis- 
sary, with  his  tri-colored  scarf  about  him  and  escorted  by  his  agent.  Behind 
them  came  Father  Jean,  with  his  basket  on  his  back  and  his  hook  in  his  hand, 
carrying  his  head  high;  then  Madame  Potard,  with  lowered  head,  and  some  police 
officers  concealing  two  other  persons,  —  Camille  and  Marie. 

"Let  no  one  go  out,  or  speak  to  the  master  if  he  comes  in,"  ordered  the 
commissary. 

And  making  a  sign  to  the  agent  who  followed  him,  he  said: 

"Watch!" 

"Yes,  Monsieur." 

And  the  agent  went  out  to  watch. 

A  thunderbolt  falling  into  this  salon  would  have  produced  less  effect;  a  ray  of 
joy  shone  upon  the  forehead  of  more  than  one  woman,  and  even  of  more  than  one 
man,  these  sycophants  tasting,  in  the  fall  of  the  idol,  revenge  for  their  own 
debasement. 


300  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

The  commissary  advanced  until  face  to  face  with  Claire,  who  stood  motionless 
and  overwhelmed.  % 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  he  to  her,  "  a  painful  duty  brings  me  here  to  effect  a  con- 
frontation required  by  justice." 

Claire  drew  back  in  terror. 

"What  does  this  mean,  Monsieur?" 

Jean,  who  had  advanced,  followed  by  the  others,  answered  her. 

"It  means  that  we  are  invited  to  your  wedding  in  the  name  of  the  law!" 

"  Just  heaven ! " 

"  You  did  not  expect  us,  I  see,"  continued  the  terrible  Jean,  folding  his  arms  in 
front  of  her.  "  Justice  is  so  slow,"  he  sneered,  shaking  his  gray  head.  "  You  were 
going  ahead  without  us  ...  all  ready  .  .  .  bouquet,  crown,  and  veil.  You  lacked 
nothing,  God  forgive  me,  but  the  right  to  carry  them  ".  .  .  . 

And,  turning  to  the  magistrate,  he  cried,  overwhelming  the  guilty  one  with  a 
gesture : 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  Commissary,  this  lady  who  wears  a  virgin's  bouquet  has  had  a 
child.  This  lady  who  wears  this  nuptial  crown  had  her  child  killed  by  this  mid- 
wife". .  .  . 

He  designated  Madame  Potard,  downcast  but  affirmative,  and  then  his  gesture 
came  back,  more  threatening  than  ever,  to  Claire,  bewildered  by  this  inexorable 
and  public  execution. 

"This  lady,"  screamed  Jean,  in  the  paroxysm  of  his  justice,  "this  lady  who 
wears  this  white  veil  of  innocence,  the  Baroness  Claire  Hoffmann,  has  suffered  this 
poor  and  virtuous  girl,  Marie  Didier,  to  be  accused  of  all  these  crimes." 

Carried  away  by  his  own  words,  with  flaming  look  and  fulminating  gesture,  he 
thrust  his  hook  into  Claire's  veil,  twirled  it  in  the  air  a  moment,  and  threw  it  into 
his  basket,  crying  with  a  terrifying  laugh : 

"  Ah  1  ah !  ah  1    A  rag  like  the  rest !    Into  the  basket!    Into  the  basket ! " 

Claire,  crushed  with  shame,  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"  Lost ! "  she  groaned  feebly. 

But  Jean,  as  terrible  as  the  justice  of  the  people,  continued : 

"  Before  God  and  before  men  you  have  no  right  to  wear  this  veil.  It  will  serve 
as  a  swaddling-band,  or  rather  as  a  winding-sheet  for  your  child  .  .  .  dead  .... 
like  your  honor." 

The  rag-picker  seemed  Olympian,  his  gesture  dominated  the  gathering,  his 
grandeur  filled  the  room.  His  lifted  hook  was  the  thunder-bolt,  his  basket  seemed 
the  gulf.  He  was  no  longer  Father  Jean  ;  he  was  Jupiter  Tonans,  risen  from  the 
clouds  of  poverty  to  hurl  gilded  crime  into  the  abyss. 

"  Pardon,  pardon,"  begged  Claire. 

Marie,  unable  longer  to  contain  herself,  stepped  between  the  guilty  woman  and 
her  judge.  « 


The  Struggle.  301 

"Oh!  Father  Jean,"  said  she,  with  a  prayerful  tone  that  came  straight  from 
the  heart,  "  you  so  good !  " 

"Yes,  there  you  go,"  said  the  rag-picker,  confounded.  "Defend  her  .  .  .  queer 
girl  that  you  are.  She  or  you !  " 

Claire,  more  and  more  bewildered  and  bending  so  low  that  she  seemed  to  wish 
to  disappear  in  the  depths  of  the  earth,  stammered  in  mortal  terror. 

"Whither  to  fly?  Where  to  hide  myself?  In  the  grave.  .  .  .  Death  rather 
than  this  punishment!  ....  I  can  no  longer  contain  the  remorse  that  is  killing 
me.  .  .  .  Suppose  it  should  become  eternal  1  Ah  1  I  must  confess  and  expiate ! " 

The  commissary  seized  this  opportunity  for  a  confession  which  he  had  sought 
by  a  stroke  of  theatrical  justice. 

"Speak,"  said  he. 

Claire  fell  upon  her  knees  and  solemnly  declared : 

"  My  God,  I  recognize  thy  justice  .  .  .  my  punishment  is  even  less  than  my 
crime  .  .  .  may  my  confession  purchase  thy  pardon!  " 

And  rising  again,  she  said  firmly  to  the  commissary  : 

"Monsieur,  I  am  the  guilty  party.  Yes,  I  allowed  my  child  to  be  sacrificed  to 
my  honor,  and  allowed  the  accusation  of  this  girl  who  sacrificed  her  honor  to  my 
child." 

Then  in  a  feebler  voice  : 

"To her,  to  her  then  this  crown  that  tortures  me,  these  ornaments  that  reproach 
me,  all  these  signs  of  purity,  love,  and  happiness ! " 

As  she  tore  the  flowers  from  her  bosom,  they  fell  at  Marie's  feet. 

"It  is  just,"  she  concluded;  "to  her  my  place,  to  me  hers!  And  it  is  for  us 
both  to  reward  her,  Camille  ;  for  me,  by  dying;  for  you,  by  living  for  her." 

Marie  sustained  her,  saying  in  tears : 

"  Oh  I  poor  woman.     My  God,  pardon  for  her  1     I  thank  you  for  myself ! " 

Jean  wiped  his  moist  eyes  with  the  back  of  his  hand. 

"What!  "  he  exclaimed,  "am  I  going  to  soften  too?" 

Claire  uttered  a  cry  of  anguish. 

"Ah!  my  heart  is  breaking.  It  is  the  end  of  the  ordeal.  .  .  I  die  relieved. 
This  saint's  tears  put  out  the  fires  of  hell." 

She  fell  into  the  arms  of  Marie  and  Rosine. 

Jean,  on  the  alert,  heard  an  oflicer's  whistle,  and,  turning  to  the  commissary,  he 
said: 

"The  baron." 

"  Take  me  away,"  begged  Claire ;  "  take  me  away  that  I  may  die  in  peace  I " 

Rosine,  aided  by  two  servants,  led  the  dying  woman  into  her  apartments. 

"  Two,"  cried  Jean,  when  she  had  disappeared.  "  Now  for  the  other,  the  third 
and  last  .  .  .  the  worst.  .  .  .  And  let  us  strike  the  iron  while  it  is  hot.  All 
hands  retire  1 "  he  ordered  with  authority. 


302  The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 

The  numerous  guests  withdrew. 

"  What  a  piece  of  news  for  my  journals  1 "  said  Louchard,  delighted. 

"And  the  contract 'f*  asked  Loiseau  of  Gripon. 

"  And  the  bonds?"  exclaimed  the  latter.    "  Bah  1  nothing  but  a  change  of  names.' 

"You  are  right,"  said  Loiseau,  the  last  to  go  out.  "They  will  have  need  of  us 
again  directly.  A  marriage  deferred,  but  not  lost  1" 

Jean  approached  the  commissary,  took  him  by  his  overcoat,  and  said  in  a  per- 
suasive tone : 

"  Remember  your  promises,  my  magistrate.  I  hold  the  cards,  and  you  watch  the 
game.  .  .  .  Let  me  finish  the  job;  go  in  yonder,  I  pray  you." 

He  made  the  commissary  go  into  another  room.  Then  he  said  to  Camille  and 
Marie : 

"  And  you  go  in  there." 

He  pushed  them  towards  another  door. 

There  remained  Laurent  and  Leon,  very  much  flurried  and  confused. 

The  rag-picker  got  rid  of  them  with  a  few  kicks,  saying  : 

"Ha!  ha  I  my  brandy-drinking  valets,  cup-bearers  to  Mandrin  !  there  you  are, 
then  1  Well,  take  that  1  And  that  1  And  dodge  this  one,  if  you  can.  Go  look 
for  me  in  the  cellar." 

Left  alone,  he  went  toward  a  portiere,  took  off  bis  basket,  then  his  blouse,  and 
concealed  himself  entirely. 

"  Now  it  lies  between  us  two,"  he  said.     "  He  or  1 1 " 

The  private  door  opened,  and  the  baron  walked  in. 

"Madame  Potard  has  gone,"  said  he,  as  he  entered.  "The  rascal's  house  is 
shut  up.  All  is  said.  Now  to  the  salon." 

"Haiti"  cried  Jean,  revealing  himself  and  barring  the  way. 

"  The  rag-picker !"  cried  Baron  Hoffmann,  starting  back  in  surprise. 

Jean  placed  himself  before  the  door  by  which  the  baron  had  just  entered. 

"Yes,  Monsieur  Baron,"  said  he,  quietly. 

"Here?"  questioned  the  other. 

"  Waiting  for  you  1 " 

"And  free?" 

"A  little  1" 

"You  have  escaped,"  said  the  baron,  as  he  imperiously  rang  a  bell. 

"  You  ring  for  the  deaf,"  said  Jean,  not  at  all  disconcerted.  "  Your  daughter  is 
caught,  Madame  Potard  is  caught ....  and  you  are  guarded." 

"I!" 

"  Yes,  you,  and  closely.  And  I  am  a  witness  for  the  prosecution,  with  docu- 
mentary evidence  to  confront  and  confound  you." 

He  pointed  to  the  basket  and  the  hook. 

"  Look,"  said  he,  "do you  recognize  that  tool  ?  And  this  one  ?  Notice  the  rust 
of  Didier's  blood." 


The  Struggle.  303 

The  baron  tried  to  go  out  through  the  door  by  which  he  had  entered. 

"  Let  me  pass,"  he  growled. 

Jean  raised  the  hook  and  barred  the  door. 

"No  thoroughfare,"  said  he.  "I  have  settled  Marie's  account;  now  for  my 
own ! " 

The  banker  tried  to  seize  Jean  by  the  collar,  but  the  latter  released  himself  with 
a  sudden  movement,  sneering : 

"  Ah  !  yes,  the  same  old  fist  I  A  regular  screw-twister.  I  recognize  it.  Twice 
goes,  but  not  three  times !  Every  day  is  not  a  fete  day.  I  am  not  drunk,  as  I  was 
at  the  table  and  at  the  quai,  when  we  were  only  two,  two  rag-pickers,  and  when 
one  of  us  killed  Jacques,  either  you  or  me." 

"  1 1     Baron  Hoffmann  ?  " 

"  Baron  of  the  basket !  You,  a  double  knave,  a  false  baron  and  a  false  rag- 
picker, a  real  robber  and  a  real  murderer.  You  killed  the  man  as  surely  as  you 
killed  the  child.  The  first  crime  produced  the  second,  and  the  second  proves  the 
first.  Madame  Potard  has  spoken,  and  so  has  your  daughter.  .  .  .  All  is  said, 
known,  understood ;  and  those  who-  have  arrested  the  daughter  will  soon  arrest 
the  father.  It  is  over  with  the  whole  race." 

"Dead! "  exclaimed  the  baron  in  despair. 

"Not  yet,"  said  Jean. 

"How  so?" 

"  While  there's  life,  there's  hope,  and  if  you  wish  "... 

"  What  ?    Say  on  I  "  asked  the  baron,  ardently. 

"  If  you  wish,  you  can  escape,"  said  Jean.  "  One  can  give  the  guard  the  slip 
here  as  well  as  at  the  castle  of  Ham ;  you  are  not  more  difficult  to  pass  than  a 
prince." 

Showing  his  blouse : 

"  Napoleon's  trick,  you  see." 

"  Ah  I  I  understand.  Well,  this  full  pocket-book,  a  million,  Claire's  dowry !  .  .  . 
my  dress-coat  for  your  blouse." 

"  You  are  on  the  scent ;  but  I  want  more  than  gold  today !  You  have  accused 
me,  save  me,  I  will  save  you." 

"  Well !    How  ?  " 

"  A  confession  that  will  clear  me." 

"  So  be  it,"  acceded  the  baron,  running  to  a  table  and  writing  the  confession. 

Then,  after  showing  it  to  Jean,  he  said  : 

"  Take  and  give." 

Jean  grasped  the  paper  and  gave  his  garment. 

"There  I"  said  he ;  "fly  in  that,  like  a  pretender.     Honor  the  blouse  1 " 

The  baron  put  on  the  blouse  over  his  coat  and  threw  his  hat  into  a  corner. 

Jean  continued  sardonically : 


304  TJie  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"Resume  also  the  basket,  which  you  should  never  abandon  again.  Banker,  that 
is  your  punishment  and  your  salvation.  You  will  pass,  like  a  letter  through  the 
mails,  under  the  envelope  of  the  rag-picker." 

The  baron  hesitated  and  then  accepted,  saying  hopefully : 

"  Thank  you.     I  will  go ! " 

Then,  becoming  Garousse  again  as  of  old,  he  went  toward  the  secret  exit. 

As  he  was  about  to  rush  out,  he  uttered  a  cry : 

"Ah!" 

The  agent  of  the  commissary  who  had  noted  his  entrance  had  anticipated  his 
exit. 

He  rose  before  him. 

"  Derailed  1 "  exclaimed  Jean.     "  So  much  the  worse  .  .  .  but  for  him  only  I " 

The  commissary,  attracted  by  the  noise,  came  in  again  with  his  men. 

"  Remain,  Monsieur,"  said  he  to  the  baron. 

Marie  and  Camille,  called  by  Jean,  entered  in  their  turn. 

The  banker  looked  at  them  savagely,  and  then,  throwing  off  his  basket,  tearing 
off  the  blouse,  and  throwing  down  the  hook,  he  straightened  up  desperately. 

"Well,"  he  cried,  "let  it  end,  then, — this  long  suicide  of  crime!  begun  in  the 
blood  of  another  ...  let  it  end  in  mine !  Today  as  formerly.  .  .  .  Better  death 
than  the  basket." 

He  went  out,  led  by  the  officers. 

"Every  one  to  his  taste,"  concluded  Jean. 

And  addressing  the  commissary,  he  said : 

"  Th  ree  1  Quits,  Monsieur!  Here  is  the  confession  of  the  father  after  that  of 
the  daughter." 

The  magistrate  took  the  paper. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "quits  and  free!" 

He  followed  the  baron,  after  a  final  bow. 

Camille,  Marie,  and  Jean  threw  themselves  effusively  into  each  other's  arms. 

"  Ah !  my  dear  wife,  what  joy !  "  exclaimed  the  young  man. 

"  They  suffer,"  exclaimed  Marie,  sympathetically. 

And  Jean  said  to  Camille : 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  that  I  would  restore  her  to  you?  Ah  1  here  are  your  thirty 
thousand  francs  1 " 

He  handed  him  the  notes,  but  Camille  refused  them. 

"  O  noble  friend,  our  true  father,  keep  them  I " 

"I  have  no  further  need  of  them,"  said  Jean. 

Camille,  indicating  the  mansion  with  a  gesture,  responded : 

"In  fact,  all  that  is  ours  is  yours.  We  owe  everything  to  you.  Yon  shall  live 
with  us." 

"No,  no,"  said  Jean,  giving  Marie  a  look  of  ineffable  tenderness,  "she  is  happy. 
That  is  all  I  want.  ...  Oh!  yes!" 


The  Struggle.  305 


"What  is  it?"  asked  Camilla. 

Jean,  giving  the  baron's  old  basket  a  kick,  answered  simply: 

"A  new  basket." 


r . 


806  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE   MARRIAGE. 

That  evening,  as  the  clock  of  the  Invalides  struck  half  past  eleven,  the  coach  of 
the  Roman  ambassador  at  Paris  drew  up  discreetly  in  front  of  the  archbishop's 
palace. 

Several  prelates  got  out,  escorted  by  lackeys  dressed  like  the  Swiss  of  Notre- 
Dame,  and  entered  the  ecclesiastical  residence,  the  door  of  which  opened  immedi- 
ately for  their  lordships. 

The  pope's  nuncio,  accompanied  by  his  dignitaries,  had,  come  to  take  the  arch- 
bishop to  bless  the  union  of  Camille  Berville  and  Claire  Hoffmann  at  his  pious 
embassy.  .  .  . 

They  slowly  traversed  the  spacious  and  gloomy  apartments  of  the  palace,  re- 
gardless of  the  beautiful  religious  paintings  that  vainly  covered  the  walls  with 
their  monotonous  spirituelle  lust.  They  had  just  entered  the  chapel. 

Mgr.  Affre  was  at  the  other  end,  buried  in  a  large  red  velvet  arm-chair,  in  the 
shadow  of  the  altar. 

He  gave  no  sign  of  life  at  the  approach  of  his  important  visitors,  and,  without 
stirring,  allowed  them  to  approach  as  near  as  possible  and  bow.  Then  only  did  he 
rise,  gravely  return  their  salute,  and  look  at  them  for  some  moments  without 
laughing,  like  a  Christian  augur. 

"  Is  this  the  hour?  "  he  asked  at  last. 

And  without  waiting  for  the  reply,  he  added : 

"Let  us  start." 

"  We  have  still  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  grace,"  said  the  ultramontane. 

"  Then  let  us  talk,"  rejoined  the  archbishop. 

The  two  illustrious  brothers  in  Jesus  Christ  walked  back  and  forth  beside  the 
communion  table,  and,  while  the  other  prelates  listened  or  conversed  in  low  tones, 
they  held  the  following  colloquy : 

"In  your  opinion  what  should  be  our  attitude  toward  the  Republic?  "  began  the 
archbishop. 

And  he  awaited  the  reply  attentively. 

"Hostile,  very  hostile,"  declared  the  nuncio.  "We  must  reestablish  the  mon- 
archy, royalty,  or  empire,  no  matter  which,"  he  continued,  making  a  threatening 


The  Struggle.  307 

gesture  under  his  evangelical  robe,  "  provided  we  get  rid  of  the  government  of  th« 
canaille" 

The  archbishop  shook  his  head. 

"Then  you  accept  the  alliance  with  the  people?  "  replied  the  nuncio,  firing  up. 

The  other  responded  sententiously : 

"We  must  accept  what  we  cannot  prevent.  The  Republic,  to  be  sure,  is  not  a 
good,  it  is  an  evil ....  but  it  is  also  a  fact.  The  best  way  to  bury  it  is  to  seem  to 
adopt  it.  As  long  as  we  sprinkle  holy  water  over  the  trees  of  liberty,  their  roots 
will  yield  neither  flowers  nor  fruit.  As  long  as  we  continue  to  be  the  priests  of 
the  Republic,  we  shall  be  its  masters." 

"Then  we  must  bless  it  to  the  utmost  in  order  to  destroy  it?" 

"Yes,  to  flatter  the  crowd  is  to  capture  it.  Let  us  keep  its  confidence  if  we  wish 
to  impose  our  will  upon  it." 

"I  should  prefer  frank  and  open  war,"  said  the  nuncio,  incredulous  and  proud. 

Mgr.  Affre  began  to  smile. 

"You-  are  an  Italian  noble,"  said  he  to  the  impetuous  prelate;  "I  am  a  French 
bourgeois.  Hence  our  divergence  of  opinion.  Believe  me,  the  confessional  does  its 
work  here,  slowly  but  surely.  The  priests  lead  the  women,  and  the  women  lead 
the  men.  The  drop  of  water,  falling  ever  and  ever,  finally  wears  away  the  rock. 
The  population  will  be  disgusted  before  long  with  the  barren  Republic.  Let  us 
not  treat  the  democrats  as  enemies,  but  as  stray  lambs.  To  attack  is  a  great  mis- 
take. To  pardon  is  all  right.  It  is  shrewder  and  surer.  Let  us  claim  that  we 
are  oppressed,  receive  our  budget,  make  collections  for  the  Holy  Father,  and  bless 
the  republicans,  —  and  my  word  for  it,  they  will  die  ! " 

At  that  moment  a  priest  of  the  archbishop's  palace  announced  the  pressing  visit 
of  the  Abbe"  Ventron. 

"  A  shrewd  fellow,"  said  Mgr.  Affre  to  the  nuncio  in  a  low  tone. 

And  to  the  vicar : 

"Let  him  enter  and  be  welcome." 

A  moment  later  the  Abb4  Ventron,  all  red,  out  of  breath,  and  gesticulating, 
made  his  appearance. 

"  Well,  what  ?  "  asked  the  archbishop. 

"Do  not  disturb  yourself,  Monseigneur,"  said  the  priest,  choking  with  horror 
and  heat;  "there  will  be  no  marriage  !  Baron  Hoffmann  and  his  daughter  have 
committed  a  frightful  crime,  and  perhaps  more  than  one." 

'•Well,  and  what  then?"  said  the  archbishop,  without  manifesting  any 
emotion. 

"  He  has  just  been  arrested,"  said  the  Abbe  Ventron. 

"  What  1 "  cried  the  nuncio  and  archbishop  together.  "  He  has  allowed  himself 
to  be  caught  ?  " 

"Don't  speak  of  it  to  me,"  groaned  the  priest  of  Saint  Roch  ;  "he  !  Hoffmann  1 
1 1  bought  he  was  smarter  than  that.  I  can't  get  over  it." 


308  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"What  a  scandal  I  "  said  the  prelates,  mournfully.  "Our  Holy  Father's  banker  1 
And  Peter's  pence  1 " 

"  Then  there  will  be  no  wedding  ?  "  concluded  Mgr.  AfEre. 

"  Worse  than  that,"  exclaimed  the  Abbd  Ventron. 

"What  then?    My  God  1" 

"Claire's  affianced  is  going  to  marry  a  poor  working  girl,  Marie  Didier." 

"A  misalliance!  Ohl  that  happens  every  day,"  said  the  archbishop,  indul- 
gently. "Calm  yourself,  my  dear  abbe*." 

"But  this  Canaille,  if  left  to  himself,  will  undoubtedly  have  a  civil  marriage. 
The  nuptials  will  pass  from  under  our  nose." 

"  The  devil !  "  the  archbishop  could  not  help  saying. 

"  A  civil  marriage  1 "  repeated  all  the  ecclesiastics  in  chorus. 

"  Bah !  "  exclaimed  the  nuncio,  impetuously  ;  "  to  marry  this  low-born  Berville 
to  Mile.  Hoffmann  was  pitiful  enough but  to  a  Didier,  ah  1  that  is  impos- 
sible. Let  them  couple  like  dogs,  if  they  like  ;  so  much  the  better  1 " 

Mgr.  Affre  could  not  restrain  a  movement  of  impatience  as  he  said  to  the 
nuncio : 

"I  tell  you  that  you  will  ruin  all,  you  Roman  gentlemen  who  have  strayed  into 
our  ranks;  you  have  no  more  diplomacy  than  the  most  insignificant  country 
priest." 

"Monsieur  Affre,"  cried  the  nuncio,  violently. 

"  Monsieur  I "  exclaimed  the  archbishop,  repeating  this  incredible  appellation. 

"Yes,  or  Citizen,  if  you  prefer,"  said  the  furious  nuncio,  aggravating  the  insult. 

A  deathlike  silence  prevailed  in  the  chapel. 

Mgr.  Affre,  ever  shrewd,  mastered  his  indignation  and  made  no  answer,  but  his 
lips  and  hands  trembled  convulsively. 

Suddenly  his  face  lighted  up. 

"  They  will  not  go  to  the  priest,"  said  he ;    "  well,  the  priest  will  go  to  them." 

"What?"  exclaimed  the  nuncio,  in  amazement. 

The  archbishop  took  the  arm  of  the  Abbe*  Ventron  and  said  to  him  : 

"  Let  us  go  to  bless  the  union  of  Canaille  Berville  and  Marie  Didier." 

The  astonished  priest  accompanied  him,  baying  rapturously  : 

"Oh!  what  a  genius  I  what  an  archbishop  I  he  ought  to  be  a  cardinal  .  .  .  and 
Pope  ...  if  only  the  Gallic  cock  could  crow  at  St.  Peter's." 

And  aloud: 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  master  stroke." 

"  And  we  remain  in  our  evangelical  role,"  said  M.  Affre.  "  We  will  have  even 
the  atheists  on  our  side." 

Then,  addressing  the  nuncio  triumphantly,  he  said : 

"  You  will  see  this  in  the  papers  tomorrow,  my  dear  brother,  and  you  will  have 
no  need  to  carry  the  news  to  Rome." 


The  Struggle.  o09 

He  started  quickly  for  the  exit. 

"  Will  you  lend  me  your  coach  ?  "  he  asked  the  nuncio,  in  a  tone  of  raillery. 

Aiid  receiving  an  affirmative  nod,  he  said,  as  he  straightened  more  and  more  on 
the  Abbe  Ventron's  arm : 

"  Faubourg  Saint-HonoreY' 

He  went  away  before  the  eyes  of  the  nuncio  and  enjoying  his  success  in  advance. 

"  Oh  1  how  I  would  laugh  if  they  should  send  you  ad  patres,"  exclaimed  the 
nuncio,  with  a  gleam  of  contempt  and  hatred  in  his  Italian  eyes. 


310  The  Hag-Picker  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

RELIGIOUS,  CIVIL,   OB   FREE? 

After  having  resisted  his  own  desires  and  every  effort,  prayers,  reproaches,  and 
even  violences,  of  his  friends  to  retain  him,  Marie  begging  with  clasped  hands 
and  on  her  knees  and  Camille  going  so  far  as  to  close  the  doors  and  secretly  throw 
the  thirty  notes  back  into  the  basket,  Jean  baffled  and  dominated  them  all,  utterly 
inflexible,  sacrificing  his  own  happiness  to  that  of  his  child. 

"  You  have  no  further  need  of  me,"  he  said  to  them  ;  "  adieu  1 " 

"  But,"  said  Marie,  "  you  have  no  right  to  go  away,  Father  Jean ;  it  is  wicked  I 
I  no  longer  recognize  you,  you  so  good,  so  obliging ;  do  you  wish  to  deprive  us  of 
the  pleasure  of  being  grateful?  You  leave  us  the  pain  of  ingratitude,  chagrin, 
regret,  the  remorse  o£^  knowing  you  as  abandoned,  poor,  old,  suffering,  sick,  with- 
out care,  without  aid,  without  anything  in  the  world  when  we  have  everything, 
thanks  to  you  1  It  is  cruelty  to  us  I  You  treat  us  as  enemies." 

But  Jean  was  firm ;  with  the  delicacy,  sagacity,  and  independence  of  his  nature, 
he  instinctively  felt  that  he  would  be  embarrassing  and  embarrassed  in  the  world 
in  which  Camille  moved ;  he  appreciated  the  incongruity  of  a  rag-picker  in  a  ban- 
ker's house ;  he  considered  his  presence  in  the  Berville  mansion  an  impossibility. 
Accordingly  he  had  made  up  his  mind,  and  was  immovable. 

As  he  left  the  salon,  he  met  in  the  ante-room  the  Abbe"  Ventron  preceding  the 
archbishop  in  pontifical  garb. 

Rag-picker  and  priest  ran  against  and  recognized  each  other,  each  with  a  feel- 
ing of  surprise  that  fixed  them  face  to  face,  motionless  for  a  moment  like  two 
dogs  about  to  fight. 

The  Abbe",  a  basilate  of  Tartuffe,  a  hypocrite  composed  of  equal  doses  of  impu- 
dence and  cunning,  was  the  first  to  recover  his  self-possession ;  and,  quickly  re- 
suming his  sang-froid  and  his  celestial  audacity,  he  acted  as  if  he  had  never  seen 
either  the  confessional  or  Jean. 

The  rag-picker,  more  human,  could  not  suppress  a  cry : 

"  Ah  !  the  priest  of  Saint-Roch." 

And,  instead  of  going,  he  remained,  curious  to  know  the  object  of  this  suspi- 
cious visit. 

The  imperturbable  Abbe"  Ventron  passed  by  him,  without  seeming  to  further 
notice  him. 


The  Struggle.  311 

But  Jean  stopped  him  with  a  question. 

"  Why  the  devil  do  you  come  here  with  your  laces  ?  Are  you  one  of  the 
married  V  " 

The  Abbe  stammered : 

"  I  come  to  speak  to  Mile.  Marie." 

"  To  confess  her  again.  .  .  .  Oh !  if  she  were  still  in  my  care,  this  time  you 
would  not  get  out  of  the  confessional  alive." 

Then,  restraining  himself  out  of  respect  for  Camille,  he  added : 

"Go  in ;  we  shall  see  how  you  will  come  out." 

The  Abbe  and  the  archbishop,  almost  disconcerted,  hastened  to  enter  with  Jean, 
who  said  to  the  young  people : 

"  Pardon  me,  I  had  forgotten  to  relieve  you.  .  .  .  My  basket  and  hook  have  no 
more  business  here  with  these  gentlemen  than  I  have." 

And  he  pretended  to  look  for  his  tools. 

With  unruffled  countenance,  the  priest  saluted  Camille  and  even  Marie,  to  whom 
he  introduced  Mgr.  Affre. 

"  Permit  your  old  spiritual  guide,"  said  he,  with  haughty  respect,  "Mademoiselle, 
and  you,  Monsieur,  to  introduce  you  to  Monseigneur  the  archbishop.  He,  you  know, 
was  to  have  performed  the  marriage  ceremony  for  the  unfortunate  Claire,  and  he 
certainly  would  be  disposed  to  bless  your  marriage  as  well." 

At  first  Marie  recoiled  from  this  viper,  but  her  natural  benevolence,  supple- 
mented by  her  happiness,  led  her  to  receive  her  ex-confessor  with  an  indulgence 
bordering  on  pardon,  though  in  silence. 

Camille  likewise  bowed  silently,  and  with  an  icy  coldness. 

Then  the  archbishop  took  the  floor ;  but,  first  pointing  to  the  rag-picker,  said : 

"  I  come  here  to  fulfil  a  delicate  mission.     This  man.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  you  may  speak  before  our  best  friend." 

"  He  1  "  exclaimed  the  astonished  archbishop. 

"Yes.  Take  a  good  look  at  this  poor  man.  I  know  not  whether  he  believes  in 
God.  .  .  ." 

"You  shall <see,"  said  Jean,  shaking  his  head. 

"  Well,"  continued  Camille,  "I  can  only  hope  that  the  Holy  Father,  the  Pope  of 
Rome,  has  as  clear  a  conscience  as  Father  Jean,  the  rag-picker  of  Paris." 

Jean  made  a  wry  face  at  being  praised,  or  compared  to  the  Pope. 

"Surely,"  said  he,  "it  is  not  religion  that  has  made  me  more  honest  than  the 
Abbe  Ventron.  .  .  ." 

And  upon  a  supplicating  sign  from  Marie  he  became  silent. 

The  archbishop  resumed  the  floor  with  that  paternal  and  sanctimonious  tone 
which  the  Catholic  priest  affects  with  his  flock,  and  especially  the  priest  of  epis- 
copal rank,  bishop  meaning  ancient,  seigneur,  senior,  venerable,  reverend,  etc. 

?'Yes,  my  children,"  said  the  pontiff  to  them,  in  this  unctuous  and  oily  tongue 


812  The  Kag-Picker  of  Paris. 

of  Holy  Church,  "  God  has  seen  fit,  by  one  of  his  unfathomable  decrees,  to  restore, 
in  spite  of  fate,  to  you,  Monsieur  Berville,  your  immense  fortune,  and  to  you, 
Mademoiselle  Didier,  your  good  name.  It  is  a  great  blessing  to  you,  Monsieur,  a 
great  honor  to  you,  Mademoiselle.  You  are  engaged  to  each  other." 

Camille  made  a  gesture  of  assent. 

The  archbishop  continued : 

"  The  Church,  which  condemns  pride  as  the  first  of  mortal  sins  and  the  fall  of 
man  itself,  congratulates  you  through  my  ministry.  When  wealth  unites  with 
virtue,  it  never  makes  a  misalliance.  It  becomes  purified  thereby.  Be,  then,  as 
pious  as  you  are  generous.  It  is  for  you  to  prove  your  gratitude  toward  God,  to 
thank  Providence  for  his  signal  goodness  to  you  in  uniting  you  according  to4iis 
law,  his  order,  and  the  holy  commandments  of  his  church." 

Jean  was  all  ears;  his  mouth  wide  open  with  astonishment  and  indignation,  he 
had  entirely  forgotten  his  tools. 

The  archbishop,  having  taken  breath,  after  this  insinuating  exordium,  continued 
to  distil  his  priestly  honey,  and  ended  with  this  serpent's  peroration  : 

"  Thus  you  will  deserve  the  benefits  of  heaven,  and  keep  its  favor  upon  earth. 
Upon  this. depends  your  common  happiness  in  this  world  and  in  the  other.  For 
you  cannot  be  .happy  except  you  lead  a  Christian  life.  The  woman  who  honors 
God  esteems  her  husband,  of  whom  she  is  but  a  half,  by  the  act  of  the  Creator, 
performed  precisely  with  a  view  to  human  unity.  If  woman  does  not  fulfil  her 
duties  toward  God,  how  can  she  fulfil  them  toward  man  ?  If  she  believes  in  no- 
thing, how  can  she  believe  in  him  ?  If  she  has  no  soul  to  save,  what  will  she  care 
for  her  body?  Lacking  divine  faith,  the  seal  of  all  union  and  the  restraint  of 
all  dissolution,  what  will  hold  her  to  conjugal  faith?  Believe  me,  young  people, 
and  marry  in  the  grace  of  God  and  under  the  blessing  of  his  minister." 

Camille  was  the  first  of  the  two,  with  exquisite  politeness,  to  thank  the  prelate 
for  his  advice  and  his  offers,  saying  to  him : 

"  Monsieur,  I  thank  you  for  the  honor  of  your  visit,  which,  I  confess,  I  did  not 
expect,  and  for  the  good  will  of  your  counsel,  which  I  do  not  deserve.  Unfortun- 
ately, my  convictions  are  absolutely  contrary  to  yours,  and  prevent  me  from  ac- 
cepting that  which  you  condescend  to  offer  me.  What  you  call  Providence  I  call 
right,  and  what  you  call  faith  I  call  duty.  The  innocence  of  Marie  Didier  must  be 
manifest  like  the  crime  of  Hoffmann  in  the  very  nature  of  things,  without  the 
direct  intervention  of  God.  I  do  not  believe  that  he  disturbs  himself  about  our 
little  affairs." 

Camille  continued  his  republican  logic  against  the  apostolic  eloquence. 

"  In  the  matter  of  our  union,  alas  1  we  are  no  nearer  an  agreement.  I  should  not 
like  to  respond  to  your  advance  by  an  offence,  especially  in  my  own  house.  But 
though  I  do  not  deserve  your  kindness,  I  hope  at  least  to  deserve  your  esteem  by 
my  frankness.  You  talk  to  me  of  duties  toward  God.  I  know  no  duties  save 


TJie  Struggle.  31o 

those  toward  man.  You  are  of  Rome,  I  am  of  France.  You  say :  '  In  the  name 
of  the  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost  1 '  and  I  say :  '  Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity,' 
—  a  very  different  trinity,  is  it  not  V  You  add  '  Eternity,'  and  I :  'Or  death.'  You 
call  love  commands,  authority,  obedience,  force,  order,  and  law  ;  I  call  it  attraction, 
passion,  devotion,  and  gift.  Every  religious  or  civil  law  is  made  only  to  supply 
the  place  of  will  and  liberty.  Free  thought,  free  morality,  free  love,  the  law  of 
laws,  —  those  are  my  dogmas,  contrary  to  your  own.  We  cannot,  then,  agree. 
Such  is  my  opinion,  Monsieur.  As  for  Marie,  she  will  tell  you  hers.  I  refer  the 
matter  to  her,  and  will  do  as  she  wishes.  What  say  you,  Marie  V  " 

"  I  say,"  she  answered,  with  charming  embarrassment  and  increasing  confidence, 
"  that  your  opinion  is  my  own,  your  sentiments  my  own,  that  I  wish  no  more  than 
you  the  honor  that  is  offered  us.  There  is  no  need  of  any  bond,  religious  or  other, 
even  civil,  to  make  me  yours  entirely  and  forever.  I  am  your  wife  because  you 
desire  and  I  desire  it,  and  not  because  law  and  religion  desire  it,  because  others 
than  ourselves  desire  it."  .  .  . 

"  Permit  me,  Mademoiselle,"  said  the  prelate,  interrupting  her,  "  those  whom  you 
call  others  are  God  and  the  prince,  the  sacrament  and  the  code." 

"And  what  is  the  good,"  she  cried,  taking  Canaille's  hand,  "  of  the  will  of  God 
and  men,  if  you  cease. to  love  me  V  The  day  when  I  shall  no  longer  please  you,  of 
what  importance  will  be  codes  and  sacraments,  the  laws  of  earth  and  the  blessings 
of  heaven  ?  You  are  earth  and  heaven  to  me.  No,  dear  Camille,  I  do  not  wish 
you  to  be  forced  to  love  me.  The  day  when  it  shall  be  my  misfortune  to  displease 
you,  palace,  fortune,  honor,  and  society,  —  all  will  be  at  an  end  so  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned. I  shall  resume  my  needle  and  my  attic,  beside  our  Father  Jean." 

"  But  your  children  ?"  said  the  priest. 

"  Our  children,"  rejoined  Camille  ;  "  there  we  find  our  sacrament,  the  bond  and 
the  curb.  When  the  human  heart  is  neither  forced  nor  falsified  by  authority, 
nature  substitutes  in  it,  in  an  orderly  fashion,  one  passion  for  another.  We  shall 
love  each  other  in  the  children  of  our  love." 

"Ah,"  said  Marie,  again  pressing  Canaille's  hand,  "even  though  he  should  no 
longer  love  the  woman,  I  know  very  well  that  he  will  still  love  the  mother  of  his 
child.  Yes,  Monseigneur,  I  wish  him  to  be  free,  always  free  to  leave  me,  as  he  has 
been  free  to  take  me.  Believe  me,  this  is,  perhaps,  more  designing,  less  disin- 
terested than  it  seems,  for  it  is  the  surest  way  of  keeping  him." 

She  bowed  more  profoundly,  as  if  to  say  a  final  farewell. 

Camille  indicated  still  more  emphatically  that  the  interview  was  at  an  end. 

The  two  priests,  forced  to  let  go  their  prey  in  spite  of  their  tenacity,  exchanged 
a  look  of  despair,  which  directly  became  a  look  of  malice  directed  at  the  young 
couple,  and  then  went  out  in  a  superb  and  almost  threatening  fashion. 

Suddenly  the  Abbe  came  back  and  said  drily: 

"  But  these  wedding  presents  do  not  belong  to  you,  and  the  church  has  its 
poor " 


314  The  Rag-Picker  of  Paris. 

"  Possibly,"  answered  Caraille,  "  only  Mademoiselle  Claire  still  lives." 

"  And  the  pence  of  Saint  Peter,  whose  banker  you  are  ?  "  retorted  the  Abbe. 

"  I  am  his  banker  no  longer,  and  tomorrow  Saint  Peter  shall  be  paid.     Be  gone  !  " 

"Well  said !  "  exclaimed  Father  Jean,  who  had  listened  to  the  whole,  rubbing 
his  hands  with  satisfaction. 

And  he  added : 

"Now,  my  children,  do  you  remember,"  said  he,  "the  day  when  I  broke  my 
pipe,  when  you  voluntarily  took  each  other  for  husband  and  wife,  without  priest  or 
notary,  —  do  you  remember  what  I  said  to  you  ?  Well,  I  repeat  it  today.  '  Well 
and  good  1  In  that  case  Father  Jean  gives  his  consent.'  On  that  day  you  were 
married  before  me,  Father  Jean,  father,  priest,  and  mayor,  all,  and  as  long  as  love 
wills,  Jean  wills.  Now,  my  role  finished,  I  go  away  content." 

And  he  went  out,  forcibly  tearing  himself  from  their  embraces  and  appeals. 


77te   Striifjyle.  315 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

MADNESS. 

Just  then  a  sharp  cry,  followed  by  a  piercing  laugh,  was  heard. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  said  Marie,  frightened. 

Camille  himself  was  alarmed  at  this  strange  noise. 

Suddenly  a  woman  half  naked,  with  dishevelled  hair  and  bewildered  face,  her 
cheeks  flushed  and  her  eyes  glowing,  came  running  in,  laughing  and  crying,  and 
followed  by  Rosine,  who  was  calling : 

"Help!" 

Claire,  attacked  by  an  acute  meningitis  and  suffering  from  a  burning  fever,  in 
a  fit  of  delirium  had  violently  jumped  from  her  bed  and  from  the  arms  of  her 
maids,  who  had  not  had  strength  enough  to  hold  her. 

She  had  lost  her  reason. 

She  was  more  than  mad.  Because  of  her  strong  nature,  she  had  become  a  rav- 
ing maniac. 

On  entering,  she  perceived  the  basket  which  the  midwife  had  brought  as  proof. 

She  threw  herself  upon  it  with  frenzy,  took  it  in  her  two  hands,  smiled  mater- 
nally upon  its  emptiness,  cradled  it  tenderly,  kissed  it  passionately,  talked  to  it  as 
if  an  infant  could  have  answered  her  words,  her  kisses,  her  smiles,  her  caresses, 
walked  back  and  forth  with  her  dear  burden,  around  the  room,  asking  Marie,  who 
was  dumb  with  grief  and  terror,  to  see  how  beautiful  the  baby  was,  telling  Rosine 
not  to  shout,  lest  she  might  awaken  it,  and  telling  Camille  to  kiss  it. 

Rosine  tried  to  take  the  basket  from  Claire,  who  held  it  with  all  her  strength. 

"Oh,  the  cursed  woman  I  She  wants  to  take  away  my  child,  to  carry  it  off,  to 

drown  it  I  Help !  Help  !  My  father  paid  her,  the  infamous What  will 

God  say  ?  " 

"Calm  yourself,  Mademoiselle,  you  have  nothing  to  fear  for  yourself  or  for 
him,"  said  Marie. 

Then  in  a  lucid  interval,  recovering  consciousness,  Claire  cried : 

"Where  am  I?" 

"  Mademoiselle,  for  pity's  sake,"  said  Marie,  clasping  her  hands,  as  if  she  ought 
to  ask  pardon  for  her  own  happiness  and  Claire's  misfortune,  "Mademoiselle,  come 
to  yourself  and  follow  me  to  your  own  room.  You  are  at  home.  Rest  easy. 


316  The  Hay-Picker  of  Paris. 

This  house  is  still  yours,  as  well  as  ours.  You  are  our  sister,  our  friend.  Forget 
the  past.  We  will  care  for  you,  we  will  love  you,  we  will  console  you.  Come." 

"  Ah,  ah,  good  Marie!  Take  him,  care  for  him,  nurse  him,  you,  so  kind,  so  kind ! 
And  you,  Father  Jean,  do  not  awaken  him  with  your  heavy  voice.  And  you, 
Camille,  kiss  your  child.  Say  nothing  to  anyone,  for  my  father  wants  to  kill  him. 
Hide  him  carefully.  They  are  coming  to  take  him.  .  .  Ah,  father  .  .  .  priest.  .  .  . 

Religion,  family  ....  the  oratory they  have  made  me  mad,  guilty.  They 

have  killed  me !  " 

It  was  distressing.     All  were  overwhelmed. 

"  Yes,  dear  sister,  poor  mother,  give  him  to  me.  I  will  care  for  him,"  said 
Marie,  humoring  the  mad  woman  in  order  to  calm  her.  "  Go  lie  down  again,  rest, 
sleep.  I  will  watch  over  him  for  you.  We  will  save  him,  we  will  bring  him  up, 
we  will  adopt  him." 

Claire  seemed  charmed  for  a  moment  by  the  music  of  Marie's  sweet  voice,  but, 
on  seeing  the  wedding  gifts,  her  raving  became  more  furious  than  ever.  Rising, 
with  haggard  eyes,  foam  on  her  lips,  and  perspiration  on  her  forehead,  she  cried : 

"  Ah,  ah,  the  marriage  1  High  society,  and  its  homage,  and  its  presents,  —  into 
the  basket  I  into  the  basket  1 

She  had  just  seen,  also,  the  basket  which  Jean  had  forgotten,  and,  rushing  toward 
it,  she  took  it  in  one  hand,  and  before  they  could  stop  her  or  even  divine  her 
purpose,  with  the  other  she  seized  all  the  objects  that  she  could  find,  saying  to  each 
of  them  : 

"  Necklace,  into  the  basket  I  Bracelet,  into  the  basket  1  Rings,  breastpin,  aiid 
earrings,  into  the  basket  1 " 

And  all  these  marvels  of  art,  luxury,  and  taste  were  heaped  up  like  cabbage- 
stalks  in  the  rag-picker's  hamper,  which  Camille  vainly  tried  to  take  from  her,  and 
which  grew  so  heavy  that  she  could  not  hold  it,  and  that,  in  her  efforts  to  keep  it, 
she  fell,  rolled  over  and  over,  struggling  in  convulsive  anguish,  crying  and  foaming, 
completely  covered  with  gold  and  silver  and  precious  stones,  and  saying  with  a 
frightful  laugh : 

"  A  dowry  for  the  daughters  of  Saint  Anthony  who  nurse  the  sons  of  Saint 
Honore ! "  and  always  repeating  the  prophetic  cry,  with  which  Jean  had  fatally 
struck  her  reason  and  her  life:  "Into  the  basket!  Into  the  basket!  Into  the 
basket  1 " 

She  fainted. 

"  Ah  1 "  cried  Marie,  throwing  herself  into  Camille's  arms,  "  this  house  frightens 
me.  Let  us  follow  Father  Jean." 

The  rag-picker  had  not  been  a  witness  of  the  fainting  of  Claire,  who  was  piously 
lifted  by  Marie  and  Camille,  and  carried  back  to  her  bed,  where  Rosine  and  the 
other  maids  watched  her  until  she  could  be  transferred  to  Doctor  Blanche's  asylum. 

This,  together  with  Jean's  retreat,  was  the  dark  spot  upon  the  honeymoon  of  the 
two  young  people. 


The  Struggle.  317 

As  for  Jean,  he  had  gone  away,  with  the  joy  of  having  made  the  only  two  beings 
whom  he  had  loved  happy,  of  having  well  fulfilled  his  role  and  lived  his  life  as  a 
father. 

Foreseeing  for  the  future  all  his  sad  existence  of  the  past,  thenceforth  reduced 
to  himself,  having  nothing  more  to  protect  or  cherish,  an  unconscious  and  sublime 
altruist,  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  return  to  the  Rue  Sainte-Marguerite,  to 
go  back  living  into  his  grave.  He  was  seized  with  a  frightful  reaction.  An  im- 
mense despair,  the  very  darkness  of  the  tomb,  invaded  his  heart,  and  took  from  him 
all  courage  to  live.  The  sparkle  of  the  wine  again  passed  before  his  eyes. 

"  No,"  he  cried,  "  death  sooner  I " 

And  feeling  that  he  was  alone  forever  upon  earth,  with  all  the  horrors  of  solitude, 
incapable  of  living  without  seeing  Marie  again,  and  of  seeing  her  again  without 
injuring  her,  he  wished  not  to  end  his  bitter  life  in  isolation,  brutishness,  and  vice, 
like  the  duke  Garousse,  but  to  sacrifice  to  his  daughter  his  moral,  human,  and 
paternal  life  in  the  very  spot  where  he  had  begun  it,  —  in  short,  to  leave  his 
conscience  where  he  had  found  it. 

And  casting  a  glance  at  the  splendid  mansion  in  which  Marie  lived,  and  con- 
trasting the  beautiful  summer  night  with  that  in  which  he  had  saved  Garousse  at 
the  expense  of  Didier,  —  a  fault,  he  thought,  that  deserved  expiation,  —  on  this 
calm  night  following  one  of  those  hot  days  that  give  our  Paris  an  Oriental 
air,  inviting  man  to  rest,  and  explaining  the  Turkish  proverb :  '  Better  sitting  than 
standing,  lying1  than  sitting,  and  dead  than  lying,'  he  started,  this  time  drunk  with 
pain,  for  the  parapet  of  the  bridge  of  Austerlit/.  .  .  . 


THE   END. 


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